White angel in the garden

She was not mine to love
and still I would give
all my vibrant crafts
to her aged yet able hand,
purple and green rivers
climbing up her veins,
glowing like jewels
on a snowy valley.

She was the cultivator
spending days outside
musically educating
and sowing her wisdom.

Whenever I presented
her my gift,
adorned in clumsy bows,
she would always laugh
and ask me again if
I was the true spirit
of the wintry Christmas.

I would have the same response
tilting my head in play,
satisfied to see her outstretched smile
and touch her wrinkly arms.

When I graduated through first grade
I came but once a week to visit
and soon began to tire,

but that one morning after
the blessed celebration
and church ceremony ended,
I brought over my mother's
homemade fudge squares
only to find on the doorstep
a single oatmeal cookie,

outlined with my name
shaped in a heart,
and written by her last
pensive, humble color.

and I try to hold onto
that memory, with every
agonizing stubble of air,

but it has already walked home
long before my time was announced,
she will never leave my blossoming body
even if life shrivels up and stops growing,
her medley of perfect will sprout gloriously.