A SECRET YEARNING

In the hush of dawn's first blush, where dew-kissed petals unfurl like secrets whispered to the sun, there dwells an elder grace—Eighty-some summers woven into her veins, a solitary symphony in a cottage cloaked by time. Alone she stands, not in lament, but in quiet communion with the earth, her hands, etched with the maps of yesteryears, delving daily into soil's embrace.

She tends her garden as a lover might, coaxing blooms from stubborn clay—roses defiant in their crimson fire, lavender sighing soft perfumes, peony dancing in wild abandon. Each weed uprooted is a verse in her unspoken ode, each seed sown a hope replanted, watered with the wisdom of windswept days. Her back bends like an ancient willow, yet unyielding, for in this verdant realm, she reigns as queen, architect of life's resilient art.

But oh, the hidden thorn within her heart—a secret yearning, veiled as morning mist, for a wanderer to pause upon her pallet, to glimpse the splendor she has spun from solitude. Not for acclaim's loud trumpet, no; just a stranger's eyes alight with wonder, a murmured "Beautiful," to bridge the chasm of her quiet world. In that fleeting gaze, her garden's soul would sing, and she, the silent poet, would know her verses heard at last.

Thus she labors on, through golden afternoons and twilight's tender sigh, her desire a fragile bloom tucked deep within, awaiting the serendipity of admiration's gentle rain.