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Widow's Garden

Updated: Feb 2, 2019

This Outside Color

Drawn to the weathered red chair

Looking at perennials yet smelling

The dog poop

Chirp conversations of the cardinals

“Speak en Englais - not chirp!”

The melon color geranium would look better in the lavender pot

Might as well since the lavender died

There’s Mary, behind the dead lavender--literal and figurative

The silver heart is in her hand


My whole life in this messed up garden

He started his memorial years ago

The boots, cherub bird bath, fence

He knew the fence would be necessary

And the camera

And the rocking 50’s red glider

The barnwood birdhouse

Dirty dogs

And the music, the damn, music,

I wanna see you dance again

On that Harvest Moon

You’re as sweet as Tupelo Honey

Into the Mystic

Screaming “Van the Man” at the illusive concert

Thirty years of color, rich vibrant, noisy color

Now chirps, squalks, barks and dead lavender

Nothing Compares to You

But there’s Mary

Green with a glued on head

Missing a thyroid

Holding the silver heart from an old lover

Chiming next to his boots

And the dead lavender

It’s been three months and 15 days, since you went away

You can still smell the manly scent of the former purple plant

And the black petunias

You planted last year

and they came back,in the only box

That didn't cave

They came back, still black, but

You did not

The week before you asked about the orange flowers in the picture

Don't worry, they didn't last either

Only what you planted last year

They weren't supposed to but you were

They live, you don't

Mary, even without her Adam's apple, lives in verde gris in the garden

Perennials don't live forever and annuals

~they might live another year

Just a spore of you

I bet there are some on your boots out there

Just like the chartreuse felt growing on the gate

It began as an invisible spore

Give rise to a "new individual without sexual fusion"

Mary did it

I know there's a cell strong enough to reproduce from your Bigfoot boots

My colorful colorful man.


The divine dance,

The mosaic of the broken pieces.

“Might a hand reach out and lead us into the Divine Dance?” (William Paul Young - from Rohr)

Whispering in our ears that we were always made for this,

A mystic, he was born to love me

Woodpecker tap tap tap doa doa doa

Mother Mary comforts me speaking words of wisdom

Let it flow

the rose

Breath in and wait for the kiss

Of profound compassion

Mirror it

One of the few meaningful invites

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