wb :

on the porcelain tiles
tending to the bougainvillas
i'm inside making flowers into necklaces
later she tells me they're pretty; she wears one around her neck
and gives me a little laugh

she's outside pulling weeds
i'm inside with the herbicide of youth
angry at the walls;
my tears are to her
garden shears

like rain to butterflies
(where do they hide until the showers have passed?)

she's outside watching television
in her old wheel-chair
I am inside
dreaming of airplanes and skies

I am outside dressed in drabs and grey
walking around the wooden box
I bend as if to confide
but now she's fast asleep, inside.

Labels: poetry