The Garden at the End of the World

by John Grey

It’s one more season for an old lady

as she sinks down into her garden plot,

a knot of gray hair under a Red Sox cap

and a face full of giggling wrinkles.



Her gray eyes never come close to gleaming,

too dulled by the thoughts behind them,

as she’s down on her knees, clipping the rose bush

in ancient Levis, scuffed sneakers,



her only duty in a family-less world

is to plant and prune, fertilize and water.

With grubby hands pressed together,

she prays to the gods of ceaseless renewal,



from the spring’s hope, the summer’s bounty,

through the fall’s recession and the winter’s decimation.

Her fingers linger on the fluttery red petals.

They are gentle reminders of the blood in her veins.



She once poured a man a cold beer.

She brushed the dandruff from his Brooks Brothers suit.

She stood on tip-toes to kiss his cheek.

She never put herself between that man and his fishing rod.



But her better half is seeds and bulbs now.

It’s her favorite peppermints and strong tea.

She rarely thinks about the little time left.

She leaves it to the dahlias to make plans.