In her swan garden

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In her swan garden
there was an old wooden arrow
laying near the larkspur, bees upon spires
In her swan garden
there was a rose red book
weathered pages
poems from long ago

In her swan garden
there was a chatting rook
climbing up the arbor with blue morning glory
tilting about, he flapped blackly wings
telling all below the tales of his summer

In her swan garden
there was a dying mother toad
crushed by the stormy shards of silver rain
I found her near the old stone circle
where the green ivy prayed
I held her by my heart
with pink petals and salt
And waited until her eyes
could hold no more
but the sun

In her swan garden
there were many creatures and forgotten souls
gnarled vines and cracked branches
shed from ancient trees above
and a labyrinth of wilting sunflowers now turning to seed

The seasons will tell us when to bury our winged
when to unearth our song
and when to untangle the dreaming things
she wrote in her book each night
before the stars came collapsing in
I watched in the quiet until she was done
and it was there she would vanish
into a spiral of a thousand winds
in her swan garden
in her swan garden
in her swan garden
I held every page
~victoria pettella~

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