The Garden should not keep its name.
It’s soil is filled with stone,
And weeds too thick and wild to tame.
One lily stands alone.

Her petals like a bridal gown,
She seems to bloom with pride.
A spot of white amongst the brown,
Too radiant to hide.

The vines have shown her mercy,
They tangle where they lie.
She bows as though in curtsy,
When it’s time for her to die.

Her gown is turning brown like mud,
But still she goes with grace.
She knows that soon another bud,
Will bloom to take her place.