His only friends are gardeners
They’re the only friends he’ll have
Those whose thumbs will strike the dirt
With the skill of how to get to bloom.
In his last days he’ll let them sit with him
At the picture window on Delta Lane
And soon they’ll watch the fussy finch
Worry a ball of suet from the reckless jay.
With them pretend will fly, muscle and bone
Will melt away in nature’s disarray, their days
In Eden remembered as holy days and the arc
Of arms from table to mouth an endless
Spray of all the elements that sink to earth
And rise in whatever it takes for life to bear