March 24, 2017The Sharpened Shears He Plied
The sharpened shears he plied
hang useless on the wall,
now that he’s gone away,
almost as if they sense—
and mourn—the difference.
The shrubs he used to trim
have swelled, shapeless and dense,
and weeds he kept at bay—
creeper, tendril and limb—
run rampant through the fence.
But no, tools don’t recall
the gardener who died,
and these green things don’t care.
No thing remembers him.
How difficult to bear.
from #54 - Winter 2016