The queen sat alone in the garden gazing
at her goldfish pond, colors playing over
the ripples of the water and her gown,
holding a rose to her cheek. Tears.
Her lover had finally died. Birds chirped
in the trees. No longer would he walk
and sit in the garden beside her, gaze
at the pond, the goldfish like golden
moons stirring and sailing beneath
the water. She had planted roses there,
many colors. She wanted all colors
available, had more created. Germination.
She had dared to work alongside two
servants to create this place, wanting
it to be just right. Roses, palms,
cypresses, breadfruit, lemon trees,
baobab, lover's arches, beauty, truth.
The day she presented the secret garden
to her lover, she held a lily in her hand,
crown on her head, blue and golden robes.
The roaming lover, a general and commander
of her armies. It had been a time of peace
though, much trade, luscious talk,
glorious actions. He had guarded her borders
well. The belly of the poor was even full.
No one dared frown on them. Wealth
came to her kingdom like a bird of paradise.
Her lover's soul flew away. We Amazons
and scholars never marry, she thought.
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