My only art is broken now,
It struggles to survive.
It seems the heart that fostered it
has been deprived.
But who would steal such beauty
from such a holy tree?
Investigation’s fruit has found
The criminal is me.
I am the one who wasted time
and uttered cruel words,
and I the one who scared away
the lovely singing birds.
And now my garden’s empty space
is void of herb or flower,
and each of my too-futile words
have lost their lasting power.
My lonely voice earns no response —
my seeds, they fall on sand.
No conversation anymore,
no walks held hand-in-hand.
But pity’s not what I deserve,
nor solemn elegy.
My challenge now’s to go to work
to learn to fully Be.
To learn to fertilize this soil
and bless it with my tears —
to bring new Life to sandy dust
and Hope to temper Fear.
Beautiful.