Beds overgrown; daisies dead-headed,
petunias long given up their flower.
Purple bursts of hydrangea hang heavy
in torment. Soon they’ll shed their brittle
bonnets. Our prized lavender’s lost her sweet
musky scent. Sea grasses, wild, unhinged, blow
this way and that like crazy, deluded
lovers. Memory’s a burden. Regret
a scam. Grasshoppers destroyed our hostas.
Why do I care? All summer I tended
the garden of the soon-to-be dead.
Haven’t I done enough? Maybe I belong
in the republic of sin. Come join me.
Isn’t it grand, death’s perverse deceiving sham?