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

 

Alice Linn

Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud