A Garden Party on Friday

Susan Ward Trestrail

Midafternoon, the sun yet to fall

over the ridge of trees that kept

the sanctuary safe from street

sounds and industry. Bejeweled

and properly hatted, the ladies

arrived, placed like the stone

cherubs they came to admire.

Block wood framed an oversized

swing reminiscent of the metal

structure from an old neighborhood

park. Not aged by years, her face,

was that of joy and wonder as she

trapezed over freshly mown grass

and summer blooms.

I teared a bit for one muse.

Her corner, with babes and winsome blooms.

I recall in detail her flamboyance and thirst

for an uncommon life.

St. Francis tucked in tree bark.

Droplets stepping from pebble to pebble.

Pocket shrines for the sick and lonely.

Every affliction prayed for and honored.

Late afternoon, the sun to fall past

tree lines guarding this refuge,

the ladies prayed.

They prayed for the past.

They prayed for the future.

They drank wine and buttered bread.

And, while the world spun around them,

they were saved in the garden on Friday.