The Lady With the Garden

I think I know the lady at the end of the street, the one with the gardens

When I am running we exchange glances as she plants lilies in various shades

She lights fires with branches and sticks she collects primping her garden

Her car is the only one there and it never moves

Her hair is long and deep gray strands usually rest in a worn-out bun

Hanging below her neck

It was brown when she was younger

You can see by the ends that are split and kept up 

Perhaps just like my dark hair 

She stays outdoors in all weather planting for hours

Her lawn is perfect and finetuned to perfection 

But her skin remains pale as if she never leaves her home

She has no wrinkles except from under her deep set eyes

Maybe she aged well

Or maybe age has treated her well

Maybe it hasn’t at all

And instead of taking her skin it took something else

Her car doesn’t move

But she does

Watering, planting, burning

I question if she is lonely in the company of her garden

I run quickly by her, catching as many glances as I can

Hoping to see something new

Maybe she sees me and it tells her everything she needs to know 

Her eyes are kind but burn with the affection of life

We have never spoken or even exchanged a hello or a friendly wave

Just glances

And yet

I think I know the lady at the end of the street.