In the garden, listening to the plants
slightly bitter, sharp, a warm cup of tea
Talking to the plants, in my mind.
Not out loud. The better to hear what the plants are saying — they can’t speak out loud either. But they speak…
I picked the last rose on the bush outside the gate this morning for my sweetie’s tea tray
She likes flowers. I thought there might be some left out there. There was. Only one. And she called me. I slipped on the frosty ground, landed softly on my side, on my way to pick her.