She was a crepe myrtle,
ancient and creaking in the wind
whom I loved very much,
and whom I indulged myself
to believe reciprocated my attachment.
An alien species,
she found herself an obliging home
years before I came along
to lodge in the building
whose occupancy expected that one mow
the backyard in which she blossomed.
And there she blossoms still,
within view of the kitchen window.
And tells me in the sweetest sways her memoirs most sorrowful.