Listen to my story.
I was a man who worked hard,
A laborer.
Dirt lined my nail beds
From toil that cost me years.
My hands were calloused,
But not my heart.
My wife, pregnant,
We were happy.
Our home, built and painted in all the colors.
Still, we lost that little soul too soon.
Our tears washed our souls
But could not flush off our grief.
My toil was not the cure
For this deficit in love.
Our loss stole our smiles.
We sat like trees for years
Rooted in grief.
Can you hear me?
Though torn apart,
We are not alone here.
This is my garden now,
And we are tending it.
We are family in loss,
But not in this garden.
Tell them who will listen.
Copyright © August 6, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: pixabay 
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 