This poem is written and based upon a true experience

The Missing Stones

The yard was really beautiful, hand laid stones around every tree,
The handicraft was excellent, The best I’d ever hope to see,

Every stone there formed a part , a picture perfect show,
Surprised ,I saw a,few stones missing, almost half a row,

I thought, “ Vandals , probably stolen ; My God , what a shame!”
An older white haired lady stood nearby ; she probably thought the same,

Shocked , I saw her tears , This poor lady was really crying,
She clasped a hand up to her breast ; to speak, she was trying,

I said , “Ma'am I feel the same , vandals have no regard for anything but stealing,
The weeds are growing now where once was beauty and loving feeling,”

Tearfully the lady said, “ I’m sorry young man, this is my beautiful garden ; I don’t come here every day,
But I just can’t help the feelings when I walk down this way,

There really is no damage; this is the way it’s been for years,
My life has been so wonderful, there’s no reason for the tears,

My Herbert was an artist, a great and loving man ,
He always finished everything he once began,

I leave his garden the way it is , His love is everywhere,
The missing stones unfinished, he left lying over there,

I think How were they to lay?, Which way did they go?,
Herbert’s hand is silent, no one will ever know,

No man has the answers and no men are the same,
This is where it ended and there’s no one to blame,

Some things are never finished, some things are never done;
But the memories live forever, every- single- loving- one.

Copyright © 2017 tom leftwich