Like ants on a peony bush,
His fingers so infesting,
Spilled the dew that once was trapped between the petals resting

He left her in that garden,
A child of the earth,
She was just another blossom,
Rooted in the dirt,

The weather changed so fast,
With no hope of escape,
She bowed her head and died,
She never knew a vase
© B L Costello 2015