(Y)Our Garden.

When you die,

I will not tend to your garden.

I can't carry the weight of your labor.

So I will watch from our window

as your flowers wilt, one by one.

I will lay them upon your grave

and smile as you reclaim what is yours.

For when you left,

the color slowly faded from my world,

leaving only this plot of dirt,

this clump of roots,

this rotting memory

of the last time I brought you flowers.

One day,

the Lord will take me too,

and I will come home

to our garden.

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