The old stockade too frail to play
the shepherd of this wayward yard
now only leans as deer squeeze by
past trellises enmeshed with vines

our flower gardens gone to weeds
entombing birdbaths full of leaves

red mailbox plunged in overgrowth
concealing step stones toward the door
which rarely opens anymore.

Behind those walls I wait to see
recalling you would fly to me

fresh daisies placed in darker hair
new ventures spoken by your stare

to wander well beyond the trees
we planted just before the freeze

when earth was endless paradise
and life was not yet time and ice.

Revisit me howeverly
in living flesh or reverie

beside me drawing every blind
that by the daylight I might find
some happy end before I go:

the one we never got to know.