I think you were the best gift.

Now my garden abounds with

stuffy lavender, open-chest hibiscus,

obnoxious daisies, a fig and an olive.

And if you saw them, you’d see I have

become something. The best intentions

did nothing. Though I often compared

you blatantly to lines, I find

I am bored and consider not reading them.

The world turns no quicker and my face has creases.

And your world must revolve around

another idol or sink into what was a faded

image. The lack of care is a great reward. And

the flowers are oblivious to any exchange.

They have new bearings and guide me silently.