I walk barefoot through the grassy
your heaven â€“ remembering your
green thumb and long sought after
lost to daydreams or disease.
The flowers you planted I never
the names of, something exotic,
I was never good in Latin. These
the most time with, watering them
like children. I think they listened to
Your sister says I have no business
gardening â€“ I killed her Wisteria
the year before.
To her, mine is the thumb of death â€“
Iâ€™ve never been invited back. Today
turns her head toward pastel, more
self-reflective, enriching shamanâ€™s
The willow we planted still stands
a Titan among the wind, but these
will spread their youthful petals
and die their best among the breeze.
the rain will come, and Iâ€™ll be gone.
Iâ€™ll have someone to look in on the