The Garden Of Endings

There hung a spell upon the day,
A hush where mortal words give way—
The wind did speak in silent choir,
And stones kept watch like saints of fire.

It was not fear, nor doubt’s lament,
But something vast and opulent—
A knowing that all paths must bend
Unto this hush, this garden’s end.

Yet lo, when ears are bid be still,
The soul may hear what winds reveal;
And so I walked ‘midst grave and grove,
Where restless blooms in silence rove.

Each step I took on hallowed ground,
Did echo soft without a sound—
My dogs, like jesters in a rite,
Did wag as if some ghost took flight.

The air grew warm with tempered grace,
As if unseen did stroke my face—
A breeze, not cold, but nodding slow,
As though it knew what none may know.

And flowers, those sentinels in bloom,
Did turn their heads from stone to tomb,
To watch who dared with steps so meek
Tread paths where none but spirits speak.

O garden fair, of ends and peace—
‘Tis only we who seek release:
My beasts, myself, and soul untamed,
By grief unmarked, by none yet named.

So tell me, thou who dwell beyond—
Dost thou rest still, or wait anon?
Do angels lift thee, winged in light,
Or dost thou fall through endless night?

Art thou afeared, ye ever-see—
Or dost thou watch and envy me?
Does comfort reach thy dust and shade
When strangers near thy stone have stayed?