The Garden

The Garden


The delicate membrane beneath her eyes, reminded me of the kale we grew that summer.
We sautéed it with wild onions and smoked bacon, while sipping Viognier.
We spent the days sweating and toiling in the garden.
Our manicured fingers chipped and stained.
Stained of the yellow clay that fought our efforts.
Stained of the beets, we had pickled and canned.
Stained of the French cigarettes we smoked, sipping espresso at dusk.



Her rosary grasped in her pale fingers, is shiny and dark;
like the Aubergine we stuffed with pine nuts, mint and heirloom tomatoes.
We sipped Pinot Noir and supped on a blanket that day.
Our lavender scented limbs where spotted
with mosquito bites and thistle scratches.
We danced barefoot in the strawberry patch and sunned nude with the basil.
She said it was to be her last year of firsts.



Her face is garish in war paint,
covering her sun grown freckles and downy cheeks.
She is hidden in black silk and stiff with rigor.
She is the houses decked in bright twinkle lights and aerial reindeer,
disguising their weathered eaves and rickety railings.
She is the garden; dead and buried.
I am the garden; awaiting the sun.