Garden Beds on 54th Street

Garden Beds on 54th Street

No more garden to tend with winter tears.
Pink lady iris will bloom without me.
It was not you who made me cry, my dear,

but rather the dark soil on my boots, too many years
weeding through bleeding hearts and rambling sweet peas 
No more garden to tend with winter tears.

Did you know that trillium plucked will not, for seven years, appear?
You never promised me or arranged a single guarantee.
It was not you who made me cry, my dear.

I was just a tourist through your beds, that was clear,
planting impatiens, a hapless rose, yearning for intimacy,
but no more a garden to tend with winter tears.

Elusive blend of petals and rain, lilies and Shakespeare,
we were both gardeners then, a laconic iris of discovery,
and this made me cry, my dear,

that like sundials in the shade, I fear
our wisp of time has gone to seed.
No more a garden to tend with winter tears.
It was not you, really, who made me cry, my dear.