I live in my father’s garden
celebrate our conversations
summer lighting up the roses
pink carnations spreading scents and memory.
Crocuses – another spring –
we talk of children growing up
summer seeping through our thoughts
I hold his hand, weed out old age creeping in
sow seeds for conversations in the furrows of his palm.
I trim the roses, cut the dead heads
keep them in a pot beside my bed.
The pot is pierced with little holes
through which their fading scents escape
they help me sleep,
dream of the one I love the most
who’ll never fade.
Their scent has gone now
Autumn leaves lie lusterless
releasing damp of life expiring.
I lie down in my father’s garden
and whisper through the earth to him.