A Garden of Virtues

To Garth: I don't know how to fuse your tattered energies together again. I thought I was the one who was meant to be saved.

Through this film of darkness covering my gaze and all that I see my thoughts are all for you What am I, who am I, that I long for the sheltering gloom of that dark place why, when I am lonely, can I not seek the companionship of others Why do I go where I am not wanted Why am I peaceful where I am not comfortable? I feel it would be the joy of my life to please you just once But again and again I disappoint Just when it is most crucial to succeed I make my slip And am fated always to be lackluster in your eyes Why when I am separated from that place Do my thoughts turn toward it again and again That dark and lonely morgue? Just when I think I may have won your approval You remind me that I am unwanted Just when I think you might open the door I find it locked against me You shut me out and leave me with my own scattered thoughts It seems like I belong with you Or at least I don't belong anywhere else Won't you please give me a chance?  

I am sitting by the window watching the rain fall over the fields like a gray mantle. It is in tune with my spirits, and I wish the tears could fall so easily from my eyes. My small red canary Cerise is singing as though his heart would break. He loves this rain that is falling after months of drought. I wish Cerise would let me hold him, but he is averse to my touch. After months he is still terrified when I reach inside of his cage to replenish his food or water. I feel so sad and alone. On days like these I long for even a single memory of Mortimer's regard or kindness. I know he does not think of me, but if he knew the depth of my feelings for him, would he be able to remain unmoved? I think I hear the sounds of wheels on gravel outside, but how can it be? * I couldn't believe my eyes as I looked out the window and saw the Morts' carriage. My heart skipped a beat, then two beats, as I saw the tall, straight figure of Mr. Mort emerge in the gloom and advance toward my ho...

The sky is gray and balmy, promising much-needed rain. The ground is dry and hard beneath dead yellow grass leaves. It is too late, though: one evening of rain will not revitalize the earth. The grass will have to re-grow from seed. I watch from my window as clouds gather. There is a pot of tea near my elbow as I always brew a pot of tea after work. I always drink black tea with no sugar or cream in it, in the morning, and when I come home from work. My tea pot is very old with hairline cracks that my ancestors sealed with gold, as the Japanese tea masters do. The design on the pot is of delicately drawn birds of paradise with long, flourishing tails. The matching cups and saucers have similar exotic paintings and are similarly repaired with gold seal. Summer is usually my favorite season. Even though I have no vacation to take, I love to think of children playing, I think of the summers of my childhood I spent to myself dreaming and writing, and when I started a new school session, I ...

Little doll on a shelf Saying nothing Still and silent Is this how it's meant to be Where's your voice Where's your breath As you sit quietly Existing in a dim expanse Who closed these lips with coral paint Why are your cheeks so bisque-pale Who do you wait for, little doll To whisper in your shell ear Skirts so silken Shoes so polished Not a ruffle out of place Curls that frame a bisque-pale face Who looks into your blue eyes, little doll Who holds you close and dear Who allays your darkest fears While other people look on Exquisite love, forbidden thoughts Is this how it's meant to be For a girl to become a doll Is this what you're meant to be?

Leslie knelt at the water’s edge and bowed his head, remaining still as pain washed over his mind like a waterfall. Cold and stinging, he endured its brutal pelting, till his face and eyes were awash in tears. “I only did what I felt was right and fair,” he whispered in the deepening dark, as weedy stalks waved tall as he by the water’s edge. “No other would touch this person, none but me—it was plain from the beginning that this rose was covered with thorns. No other seemed to consider the rose worth the thorns—but I prized it such. I took and held his friendship—breathed life into it patiently day by day, loved him—and now it is all lost.” As a duck skimmed the surface of the pond, colorful ripples spread before Leslie. “Teach me, lord, to endure this pain. I thought him worth the price—I think him worth the price. I see him alone, friendless, and clearly tangled in his thorny resolve I see pain and loneliness. This pain I sought to heal. He tolerated me for a time—then use...

As I watched over my familiar tree-tops the last of this day's light faded away, leaving me with a lingering sadness. As I sat quietly in the growing darkness I felt the world was falling away from me, growing cold and remote. I'm afraid of the darkness, where shapes move in the corner of my mind, whispers drift. Memories apart from me stir to an invisible draft from an unknown window, and as the light fails, my mind's eye sharpens. I begin to see figures in the dimness.   Amanda: What's going on? Are you all right? Why are you wearing that dress?   I can't find any of my clothes. You have them packed away for the move. I really like this gown, though. You're not selling it, are you? Amanda: Of course not. I'm glad you like it. FYI it's a replica of Princess Grace's engagement ball gown. Huh! I feel like a princess wearing it. Amanda: I have a little something for you. It's not much because I'm on a budget now. *gasp* Did the Moniqu...

  I have the house all to myself these days. How quiet it all is! I leap at my own shadow. I anticipated peace and quiet, curling up in the rocker with the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley introduced to me by the mistress. It came to me, in a breath of wind down through the chimney like a whisper from the past, that this house was not always so quiet. There is a sense of tragedy here. I climbed from the rocker and traversed into the bedroom. I felt cold and shaky from my daring, knowing that my lady would never approve of my doings. The mistress is very secretive about certain things. In my lady's bedroom is an antique cupboard half-rusted shut. She has told me that once we are moved she will make it my apartment. It is just my size, the top shelf ideal for my bunk, the middle shelf for my things and the bottom fits my cast-iron stove and other furnishings. However my lady has never actually shown me my apartment or fitted me in the bunk. It is to be my own soon. Surely it is n...

Amanda's day . . . We slept in a little while. I made a pot of coffee from the Southern Pecan I brought with us and drank it throughout the day. After I had seen Nathan off, I started on my sewing. I hemmed six napkins while I watched Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park. It was heaven to sew in a leisurely way while watching intermittently. I am watching the BBC movies, and I love the costumes. The fabrics and trim are so gorgeous as are the colors and textures. I grew restless and wanted to work on something clothes-related, so I cut out a bonnet and apron pattern from those I brought and placed patterns on fabrc and thought for a good while but haven't cut out anything for the bonnet yet. It is so wonderful to be able to work without worrying about the time, about going to bed or getting things ready for work the next day. This is the most wonderful vacation I can imagine. I cut out some pieces for a chemise and bloomers for Violette. I think they will be adorable, and I...

  I have been reading this remarkable hand-made poetry book sent to Amanda by a very kind friend. I am captivated by the poetry selections and long to discover the kind of life these words embody. A life of freedom, and of love. I am just a little doll who sits in a rocking chair, but my heart is filled with dreams.

Like Heathcliff, he returns. In black, like a hero, or a villain. Boyish blonde locks fall from a radiant countenance. His eyes are clear blue, his skin pale as snow. From his broadened shoulders falls a black cloak of a fine weight. His person is not inconsequential, his gaze is unreadable. There is determination in his features, perhaps even vengeance. He strides through the garden. Perhaps never before was there such a large footprint on the summerhouse's snow-covered steps. Frost encircles the fine details of the black fence. A rose lies near his booted foot, impossibly pink and lovely in the airless chill, frozen as though under glass.