deepundergroundpoetry.com

Shrine for a Shrew

The crows in the big tree
drink silence
counting feathers
after last night's storm
The rose gardener at number 32
smiles quietly & shrugs away his toast

He would have told her
how hard the ground was this year
how we needed
every last raindrop
that there would be petals
to sweep from the path

She would have told him
how idle he was
about the crumbs
he dropped on the floor
that the washing up
couldn't wait...

But there were no more words
no more differences
to quibble over
no more first things first
only the scent of the roses
soothing the thorns of her memory
as each new day
pushed them deeper
down into the earth

After he'd dug the hole
watched the concrete
he poured slowly and carefully
gurgling up over her face
into nostrils, eyes & ears
turning fine gray hair to stone
he had thoughtfully tossed in a note
to remind her always
about the beauty of silence
and its value in the home

For once he'd managed to enjoy
the luxury of the last word
& now everything in the garden
stayed silent
just how he
preferred