I'll be back to pull the garden.
Spring has proven winter cruel.
And all of summer's beauty lies there rotting.
Stripped like yours from you.

And I know I
can't stand remembering
the dirt
under our fingernails.
The silence,
your defense;
tired over
tired hand.
And we spent December
given our best shot at hating;
but now,
as I remember,
we had no reason
to abuse.

I'll force God to notice
that He is giving nothing back.
And all of us were wet out in the boneyard;
He washed the tears from you.

And I know you
deserve none of this,
my distance
as we stole flowers
from his grave.
The silence,
my defense;
tired over
tired hand.
And I recall the ways
you pretended not to notice,
but we both sowed the soil
that grew only what could die.

And if you believe that I tried only to deceive:
you know that's not true.