The ruin we made of our garden
Is confusing even today.
Seven trees times three
Planted for the first children
Now dread covered.

Bastards I could never have lived with
Occupy that land today.

My love cried when it lost
Its place of rest.

It died for me. It died for us.

Gray apples, a rotten bone.
Love and time that sucked on them.

Water draws strength from stones
And tries to move them
And this way prevent erosion
Of something deeper down
That supports them all.

We should have watered more.
Or bought more hydrangea
To decorate the groundswell
Before the great flood

Of warriors and moneymen.