She passes by her garden,
much of its fruit now eaten by foxes, and overgrown with weeds;
on her way back from another place, that she tends instead.

With tears in her eyes she stops,
remembering how that it was here, that the handsome King found her,
in this place of young romantic dreaming.

Why has her desire been
to please her mother’s sons,
who secretly despise her gift,
and help them in their vineyards instead?

Her garden was an inheritance,
a gift from her doting father;
a playground of delights and adventure,
which a woman rarely gets.

And in this place her passions
had found sacred expression,
and her Creator’s love,
watching over her,
gave her peace.

“Is there hope for this place again?”
she wondered.

A breeze rustled in the trees,
dancing back and forth as if
to hopefully get her attention.

Ever so tentatively,
she whispered,

“Yes Lord, I’m listening.”