A few weeks ago, I was alone outside, in my neighbor’s backyard (they have a climbing rock and swings, and are very nice to let us play there). I had been reading Anne of Green Gables that week, and was in a poetical mood. There were puddles under the swings, and I floated some yellow buttercups in one of them. I decided to name the puddle. I came up with The Glade of Wishes Past. I started making a poem out loud (in a British accent – poetry was made for it). I came inside and typed. I worked on it for a few days, and came up with this:
The Glade of Wishes Past
by Ellie Cummins
The Glade of Wishes Past
Lies in the grassy knoll of time,
A silent sheet of glass,
Strewn with yellow flowers, floating.
Each flower for a wish,
Made in present, past, or future.
The yellow petals rippling
For the wishes all forgotten.
The petals torn from stem
Like the wishes from the wisher.
A solemn girl,
Reclined on mossy bank,
Prays that she might have the wisdom
To help her through her trials.
Her eyes drift down to flowers blowing,
Ever softly, sweeter still.
She plucks one gently,
Sends it drifting,
Its place to fill.
A broken boy,
Crutch cast aside,
falls to the ground,
With tears so long unshed.
He asks for healing
“If it be Your will,”
And deftly with his much used hands,
He picks a flower, broken, too.
Its stem is bent beneath the weight of blossom,
Now drooping and fading.
He places it gently in the pool,
And watches as it slowly drifts
To twirl and bob in silence.
A determined boy,
With soft eyes hailing
The destination of his mission,
Kneels down slowly,
To search the grass.
He finds a flower, small and lovely,
Like his beautiful sister, ailing.
Then as he promised her
He places the blossom in clear sweet pool.
It finds its place among the rest.
He stands and leaves,
Begins treading home,
Having completed his sister’s request.
Years go by, with no more visits.
The pool sits silent,
The flowers glide.
The water ripples,
With the tears that have been cried.
A strong young lady soon appears.
As you’ll recall – it’s been some years.
She sits down quietly,
And rests awhile,
As she remembers
The girl who came here “yesterday.”
“My life is good, because of You.
You helped me resist temptations.
Now I’ve nothing to regret.
My childhood was well spent.”
She gets up slowly,
Hesitant to leave,
But remembers the child in her husband’s care,
And waves goodbye.
A young man comes,
And sits down slowly.
A flower washes onto the dirt.
He picks it up
In his mind are the remnants
Of a broken boy
In need of healing.
“You’ve healed me, Lord,”
He says in awe.
He stands and turns to go.
He looks at his legs, now straight.
“Thank You,” he murmurs.
And he walks, without a crutches’ aid,
And waves goodbye to the silent glade.
A tender young man comes into view,
Pushing a wheelchair.
Its tenant is a small and frail young lady.
Sweet and lovely,
Fragile and dependent.
The young man lifts her up
And gently sets her
On the soft grass by the water.
She sighs in blissful contentedness.
He takes a walk
And stares at his reflection.
His gaze wanders over to the small figure resting in the grass.
“It was Your will not to heal her.
Now I think I see why.
I wouldn’t change her either.”
And he walks back to his sister,
And lifts her to her chair.
“Will you bring me back again?”
He pauses, and answers,
“Yes, I will.”
And they wave goodbye to the silent pool.