The lace was frayed at the edges
worn and old – yellow like the
books you were so very fond of
You had rubbed at the needlework,
running your fingers across the
embroidered lilies; your hands—
clammy and cold, had pinched
those petals; plucking them as if
they had been Real
I had mended your garden,
each time you came to me;
red faced, puffy cheeked,
tearful over the mess that
You had made, yet telling
Me to fix it – please
My eyes can no longer hold
the needle, thin and silver,
which you had watched –
enamored, as it swam
between the eyelets
I am too old, too liver spotted,
too wrinkled and grey –
and you, you’ve grown too
big, for the false flowers I had
sewn so long ago; You, the garden,
are Gone
