The garden flourished under a caring hand,
A secret place they both could understand.
One night, beneath the veil of moonlight's hue,
He'd press his hand to what was fresh and new.
Not thinking of his wife, or of his name,
But of the gardener, and the gentle, silent flame.
And in the fragrance of the blooming night,
He saw a different, fragile kind of light.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments may be moderated and will appear within 12 hours if approved.