The lace was frayed at the edges

worn and old – yellow like the

books you were so very fond of


You had rubbed at the needlework,

running your fingers across the

embroidered lilies; your hands—

clammy and cold, had pinched

those petals; plucking them as if

they had been Real


I had mended your garden,

each time you came to me;

red faced, puffy cheeked,

tearful over the mess that

You had made, yet telling

Me to fix it – please


My eyes can no longer hold

the needle, thin and silver,

which you had watched –

enamored, as it swam

between the eyelets


I am too old, too liver spotted,

too wrinkled and grey –

and you, you’ve grown too

big, for the false flowers I had

sewn so long ago; You, the garden,

are Gone


Alice Linn

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