Our
Garden
Tended by gestures,
love grew for us from the fertile dark
drawn out of nothing
We readied ourselves to
extend soft palpable hands
to the rising summer
But warmth sorrowed to cold
and blunted our digits
blackening those feral fingers
Yet our lot flowered sickly
in the insipid light
wan from the thinning soil
And blooms that repeated in consideration
curled brown and turned paper mâché
then fell towards the hard ground
By
NLMcD
No comments:
Post a Comment