rain on the lawn; the greenness
dark and deep. a handful of shells
clotted in the mud with the blossoms,
the pink ones
from the cherry tree.
she walks out slowly,
snow petals swirling round her,
in the garden she will lie
where the grass is softest. she will lie
staring at the glass sky,
a sleepful of memory.
just love, the garden will say,
she forgot the place where he kissed her once—
it wasn’t here
but she returns anyway,
the grass feels sweet underneath her,
the air tastes golden, the first taste
of crab apples in autumn. love
set her going in spring, a silk cut
from a willow tree.
smoke rises in the distance
to the smell of cherry pie.
once he kissed her eyes, her cheeks;
he told her she was cinnamon.
in the garden now she is older,
older as the trees are, ring after ring
in each year, each reel of string
that she unwinds.
they come to bind
the sweet peas with twine.
she is older
and the pie in her mouth now
is cloying; she is older
and the leaves are dying,
falling with the raindrops, the poor branches.
The garden speaks
now she is older, the rings round her eyes—
old pools of light, cherry pie,
(prompts: eloquent, garden)