I found her lying in the grass
A small plot of black soil
Half dug next to the house
Trowel still clutched in her hand
Flower bulbs scattered near her feet  

I helped her into the living room
Her soft withered body
A feather leaning against mine
Wobbly hand pointing toward her chair
Why didn’t you call me? I asked
She just shrugged before replying
Seems if a body is soon to leave this world
A body should be able to leave something pretty behind  

I put the kettle on for tea
Brought her pills and a warm blanket
No use asking her to call the doctor
Both had given up the pretense
Grown weary of Keep the faith  

She insisted on the planting instead
I grubbed and turned the fall ground
To a fine crumbling between my fingers
Then she puttered the bulbs to bed
Whispered a prayer for their ears only  

One warm and windy March day
I drove past the empty house
Saw the For Sale sign in the yard
A yellow conversation of daffodils
Chatted gaily amongst the red brick
Whispering    pretty   pretty