untitled (thus far)

[armadillosarecool]

can't come up with a title for this one for some reason, but have at it as is:



he deadheaded their rhododendron,
his fingers squashing the petal husks
like ears that listened unconditionally
to her quotidian murmurs
offered from her knees,
stooped in a prayer to the garden gods
drawn from the Old Farmer’s Almanac:
her tattered psalter. he looked down
and felt a salt tear mix in his hand with the
morning dew and gritty pitch from a wilted blossom
as he ground it to a fiery pulp.
his eyes fell on the two vacant indentations,
shallow graves of crushed grass where her knees
nestled, always parallel to his.
eyes brimming, he looked at the scraggly weeds
untouched on her side of the earth.
his clippers fell from his hand as he
let himself become one with the grass,
sprawled out like the gangly spiders stalking
the grass near where he lay.
he thought he could feel the earthworms
writhing after their daily bread, he
pressed his ear to the topsoil and
longed to join in their unbothered, primal dance.