Relic Poem by Roy Ballard

Your garden now is empty, barren ground,

not desolate of flowers but of you.

A ring I gave you was there lost and found

among the leaves that fitful breezes blew.

Today I wish that twist of gold still there,

a buried treasure in the soil you tilled

when scents of roses floated on the air;

where you watched stars when busy days were stilled.

It does not rot; far better had it stayed,

a little crock of gold by fortune spared

for that small acre where the gift was made,

a lasting relic of a pleasure shared.

Yes, there are things, delighting us when found,

that would be better left beneath the ground.