He continues to tend to her garden,
long after her final gasp of breathe,
Past the gate, keys to the warden
lies in pockets once of mischief,
sneaking up to grab her profoundly,
rolls in the vivid greens and roses.
Memories become fractured like glass,
and mornings a struggle to rise,
and yet he continues to attend mass
until he too passes the reaper's price.