In the Garden

As the rose cuts deeply with its redness,
I see your visage in sleepy visions,
like a portrait beneath my lashes, stroked
flawlessly, through the length of days
spent trimming down the weeds
that grow relentless through our efforts.
In a matter of time we’ll shear
them down again, that much harder
to slice that pestilence away,
as the darkness of autumn evenings
creeps into summer’s passing shadow.
Let there be some light yet, to see
the work of longer days in our garden,
to see your final smile in the sun’s beam,
and watch, as my delighted fingers caress
your freckled neck in admiration.
Let there be hours to pray and sing,
and laugh at gilded butterflies,
let there be moments yet to wonder
at the splendor of it all.

I close my eyes to see your likeness,
but the paint begins to crumble
from its canvas, wrinkled
as if worn by the harshness of times.
The smoke between your fingers
has clambered up and stole
your golden hue away,
like a breath of darkened wind
it strips the petals from your face,
and tears have dripped the very
sparkle from your eyes,
the spirit soon to follow.

You wounded me with beauty once,
without, you wound me still,
the faded wings of butterflies,
pressed cold, upon the sill,
the garden’s white with winter’s cover,
the glass with winter’s pall,
there’s only moments yet to wonder
at the brevity of it all.