Reminiscence

Going into my garden this time of year
is like seeing an aging friend.

We used to talk of the future,
now he speaks of the end.

Strong, open arms that once hugged me
grow more frail each visit it seems.

He is wearing yellows and browns,
I remember him in summery greens. 

Our words that seem business as usual
are actually a long goodbye.

I head back inside where it’s snug and safe,
while my garden prepares to die.

With the passage of time will come the cold,
lack of nourishment will stunt his roots.

But my garden, my hero, slogs on,
if I look carefully he still bears fruits.

November Garden