The Garden

Don’t come too close, you’ll be standing in his spot

You’ll trample the roses and marigolds I’ve planted with careful thought

Watered with tears of conviction and unyielding self-control

They stand a little taller with each passing hour

By the time he arrives, this garden I’ve contrived will be too husky to see through

And when that happens, I’ll carve it into a bouquet, presenting it to him on my final day