We drove past every day, my child and I,
Past the old white frame house
Where Ollie lived.
The house was small and boasted peeling paint
And grimy windows, and an old car
That hadn't run in years.
In winter, the house was washed in a kind of
Gray sadness, but in spring,
Oh! In spring she tilled the earth and planted
Rows of corn and beans and tomatoes,
And the house came to life.
Something comforting in seeing Ollie
Working there, bent over, blessing her
Growing things.
Faithful and relentless in her mission,
Coaxing seeds from the earth
And harvesting their gifts.
We never talked to Ollie, but knew
She would be there when we passed,
And we always smiled and said, "Look!
Look at Ollie's garden!"
They say it was the cancer that took her last year.
Now, the land is grown over with
Weeds and cuckleburrs, and the gray sadness
Washes over us as we drive by,
And I wish we'd stopped once and told her
Just how much we depended on her, seeing her there,
Working steady and slow, making us feel
Like there was order and purpose in the world,
And giving us hope.