Swirling, swirling echoes of greens
Gem stones shining like
A lonesome star
Magnificently beating
Evoking some sort of light

One can never pass
The cry of those
Left behind in their own graves
He was like a ghost
Shimmering slightly
Whistling an empty tune
While climbing the chimneytops
To heaven's embrace
Racing to never catch his breath

Her nimble smile fluttering
Behind the iron ivory wrought gates
Under the chiming calls,
Crying beautifully she wonders
Closer to the music
Where her fingers could finally
Strike the light of dawn

it is too late to say sorry
when amends are pretty flowers
and
the memory resides planted six feet under
the green grass
and weeds all growing over
the
scar in the earth
no matter
the tears you water
the ground under
your feet
or the rose in your hand
so next time
grow
your flowers where
you vow to get planted
yourself
or grab a handful of
earth in your hand
and dance
breathing
hard and
smiling

everything else has room to grow
                                    so continue to run,
                                              gallop and walk
                                                         weave through
                                                               the something's
                                                                       and nothing's,
                                                                           aching for that
                                                                                better tomorrow

old, old withered hands
grasping the edge
of a red handled rake,
old man stands upon
lone green hill
lavish under sweltering shadows
and swaying stems
of daisies, lavender and petals
the hue of burgundy cherry

lone house on a hill
spotted passageways
out into sweet oblivion
where the sky and earth
greets with hello,
this lone man stand on a hill
raking as he goes

the pebbles in the grass
clutter like trinkets
ringing affectionately,
                                      simple land, simple hands
he mumbled solemnly to himself
trying to lead him to believe
the day she left
was not the last
he would smell her perfume

dark, curly locks
piercing gaze of sapphire
greyed into wisps of smoke
ashes swirling in the wind
her hair rustled in the wind
chocolate brown and olive glimmers
and the slightest salmon pink
painted on her lips,
                                         smile like in still pond water

his heart aches melancholy,
raking the pebbles left in his garden
the one he nurtured for her
of dewed lotus and blossoming peony,
twirling bark of ancient sakura
showering the garden with cascading petals,
almost like snow, shining in the garden
the way his heart ached
for her sweet voice
                                            only sound of trickling pebbles

chrysanthemum dotted golden yellow
spurred in sweet dance with the lilies
bonzai trees twisting, elegantly unfolding
over the expanse of the bowdoin,
unfurling like in memory
the way her words would spill
like spilling sunlight at dawn,
or the way her steps
carefully planted from stone to stone
across the trickling river bend,
currents adorned with that
of galloping salmon,
the color of her lipstick
                                                     so long, lovely song

the old man could no longer
see wide eyed,
his grip faltering with fatigue,
raking the pebbles in directions
line meeting line, like the rhythm
of his frail heartbeat,
eyes tired and dull
long shadow after his frame
a thousand butterflies fluttering
in the slight breeze,
mumbling to himself
                                                    lean on, one of me
believing she was
still watching over him,
smiling and caressing
his sore arms,
breathing through
the beauty in the garden