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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade #1094126 added July 26, 2025 at 11:52am
Restrictions: None
In a Garden Forever
Prompt:
Write a short story using this quote as inspiration:
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.”
Alfred Tennyson
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In a Garden Forever
Grace pushed the gate open, which greeted her with a welcoming creak. Here lay the garden, warming under the morning sun, its rows and rows of flowers stretching endlessly. It was as if the place itself bloomed with feeling.
She walked among the flowers inhaling their scents...roses, lilacs, lilies, carnations, and many others. She had planted each flower with care, one for every thought of him and for every moment she still missed him.
They had dreamt this together, this garden, as their dreams curled softly in their shared joy. He had said, often, “If I had a flower for every time I thought of you... I could walk through my garden forever.”
Then, he was taken away from her--suddenly without warning. So Grace started the planting on her own... one flower for each of his sweet words, one bush for each memory. And the garden grew like her grief.
And now, years later, she walked along the winding paths of the garden as the wind rustled through the tall flowers and a beautiful butterfly danced ahead of her. Now, old and tired, she sat on the stone bench under the wisteria and closed her eyes, feeling her garden pulse with life, a place that would always be alive.
"You did plant our garden, Grace, and it is stunning." It was his voice, no doubt about that! She smiled, as his voice caressed her, but she was unable to talk or to open her eyes.
"I came for you," he said. "To take you to the garden I planted for you...to a place where gardens never end."
Later that day, the next-door neighbor found Grace on the stone bench, under the arch of the wisteria, smiling, happier than ever, but lifeless.
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