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carefully
I planted them in the furthest fields of my heart perennials of every hue all for Algernon flowers that would not be plucked nor picked flowers that would grow in wildly thick all for Algernon blue for skies and pink for clouds reds and purples for luck and golds for warming sun yellows for the optimism of many days yet to come and knowing every Spring there'd always be flowers all for Algernon one day Algernon didn't rise nor come out to play he'd barely eaten, barely slept his eyes look glazed and far away that day Algernon was no longer the fellow I once knew well-attended flourishing and aglow with health too like all the flowers for Algernon I tenderly kept the second morning Algernon could no longer rise his voice barely above a whimper his legs were wobbly and awry off to the doctor he was dispatched as knowing tears filled our eyes but on the second day Algernon succumbed aided by a needle to his final rest I feared the flowers in the far fields too would no longer come knowing Algernon would not return their purpose had been after all to grow and strive and yearn all for Algernon carefully I had planted in my heart a garden for Algernon's play and rest in that garden lived all of him that was best I tell myself this is surely where we all live on with the other secret blooms waiting for another vivid Spring when we'll fine evidence again of the places where Algernon has joyfully stayed and played the place where the spirit of Algernon lives on and where He has always been. January 3, 2019 4:37PM Pacific Standard Time/time date stamped legal copyright for this poem/and also for this writer Melissa A. Howells and also for this legally copyrighted site title Meloo Straight For Her Tilt-a-World re-edited 3:51pm PST January 4 2019 for clarity and emotional content The literary reference is intentional for those of you who know the book or maybe know the film. To have someone who is so precious in your life or a gift or an ability that is so integral a part of you and then to have lost any of these people, friends, (animal or human which often are one and the same or some intangible but essential ability that actually becomes a part of our identity...who we think we are. This poem is about loss. If you haven't read the book or seen the film, you ought to. Vote for this poem |
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