Garden

Olivia Maddaloni

Once, innocence blinded her

Eden before The Fall

She sits in her garden as the sun drowns,

A mass of violet and gold

Behind the silver gate entangled in ivy

Stars begin to show like embers

She lets her ghost child roam again,

The lost traces of her soft footsteps,

Her laughter like bells,

The days when she’d dance

With daisies in her hair

Once, she’d been a child

The garden is silent

No larks to sing, only a willow tree

No lavender or lilies to comfort her,

Only aged cobblestone walkways

Overgrown with moss

She used to see the petals of a Rose

As beauty, when their vibrant red

Never meant fuming anger

Nor swords to wield

She ponders their threadbare stems

Seldom did she query

Why the Rose grew thorns

She failed to notice their existence.

Olivia Maddaloni is a third-year student at the University of Toronto in Mississauga. She is majoring in Psychology, as well as completing a double-minor in Professional Writing and Communication and Creative Writing. She loves to experiment with aesthetics in her writing and even draw from emotional concepts that stem from her love of psychology. Throughout her academic career, Olivia has been a part of numerous writing classes, which allowed her to explore her love of poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. She has also written fictional narratives, like short stories, that she submitted to other writing contests. Olivia hopes to continue pursuing these passions and publish her work.