Into their once full garden that’s now
close to barren, two ancient nuns shuffle
along looking for a few late autumn blossoms
to paint their lives. Covered in grey habits
& (winter) coats, they’re two of nine
lastlings living out their remaining days
in a convent that once housed dozens.
Wielding a pair of garden shears,
one glances my way & challenges
the blast of morning sun shining
directly in her eyes as I pass by on
the sidewalk outside their gated house
while the second, stooped over low, carries
along as best she’s able, summoning up all her
fortitude beneath her burden of a dowager’s hump.
These two venerable servants of God are the only ones
plucky enough to venture out in the cold morning air
searching for whatever might still remain of the bed
of dusky zinnias & marigolds, a meager blessing,
perhaps memorable, of the Master Gardener’s
mission. I nod a greeting & gently smile
back, not chancing a sound to mar
the morning silence they take
so seriously. A short row of dried-out
sunflower heads crowning at the convent’s
entrance rattle, shaking off the garden’s near
silence & seemingly praying for some attention.
