He buries a small hole in the garden,
wraps her thoughtfully in a pink blanket,
inside a small wooden light coffin.
Tears will flow down his skin so hardened,
the crops that sail in the wind, no gambit

Lowers her gently, tilts her head forward,
tries to pray but his trembling words slur,
Every day-break she was with the orchids,
Carefully clipping and hand watering

He still has a seat for her at the dinner table,
letting go of it has been far too painful,
He keeps her room as she had last left it,
scattered drawings and her red draped jacket.