Gardens

John Grey

And there you are again,
in your garden,
bent down into the roses,
one hand guiding you around the thorns,
the other manipulating clippers.
Slim-stemmed irises rise up to greet you.
Peonies dance in the care you bring,
and all the while, the sun
embraces your shoulders,
wraps around your waist,
gilds the lilies in your hair.
I'm in the house,
away from living things,
but I look through the large window,
eyes jealous of the soil,
the fertilizer.
My stem barely breaches the surface.
My petals hunch dormant around
this bud of a heart.
An untended garden can only grow so much.