In stilled evening
I will not walk again
by your once tended garden
of nasturtiums
and tangled seedy heads
Some time ago
I dug for you
a fresh new bed
of broken earth
and buried for you there
spring bulbs
hidden and sleeping
waiting for your acclaim.
You remarked you would be gone
before spring sun
drew them up.
I knew it was your wish
and I knew you
would not be
not this time.
You said not one word
about the beauty
in the spring
only complained
about the weeds
and asked me to remove them.
But I cannot now
my heart condition
newly acquired
will not allow me.
The easterly wind
blows cold again
wrapped up
in bitter cloth.
And this coming July
you will be flourishing
aged and worn
and I have no love
to defend against
your resolution
and your anger.