Mary’s in the Garden

Mary's in the garden, she is buried there,
Beneath the flowers, and the subtle air,
The sunbeams dance, in the shades of light,
And the wind whispers, through the gardens delight.

The roses bloom, with colors bright,
As Mary rests, in their gentle sight,
Petals fall, like teardrops on the ground,
Whispering memories, of moments around.

Her spirit lingers, in the garden's bloom,
And in the fragrance, of the air's perfume,
She walks among the flower beds,
And dances through, the morning's threads.

The breeze carries, her gentle hum,
And echoes, of her laughter's sum,
A voice, that speaks beyond the grave,
And memories, that her garden will save.

As the sun sets, and the stars appear,
Mary's garden, becomes, a sacred sphere,
A place where the departed ones,
Find rest, in the shade of the garden's suns.

And so, Mary's in the garden, she is buried there,
Amidst the life, that continues to bear,
Her beauty, her spirit, and her grace,
Still linger on, in the garden's space.