Pushing Up Lilies

The first morning I awoke under your roof, it was March, 
and I ventured into your garden for a stroll
over installed stepping stone paths, 
towards cold, stony-faced statues
to tend to flower beds in full splendor
reclining like nudes in the sun
while you, rigid, clothed, sat between busts of dead men
over a dividing brook.

Then spring left, and summer came, 
and it would see my admiration slow and lethargize with the heat
but not you, of course, for rain or shine
you were brave enough to sit on the boiling way.

Many more seasons would pass, and you and the stone braved the winds of change,
while my love would wither and bloom and wither and bloom
and you would never know the source of the lily petals on the footpath
was my abuse
when I was impatient to know whether you loved me, loved me not.

Because you died.
Nothing would grow in my heart for some time
and I did not try to rake its dust,
so those winds swept me up and I was blown to shreds
and I did not plant a garden in the stony home where I hid.

You taught by example how to be someone worthy of effigy
and in another time, your scowl might’ve kept me out of the flowerbeds,
but I so desperately wanted to be the ground you walked on
though I might have learned rebellion from you, for you strayed from your path as well,
taking after the blooms in your garden: food for worms.

Thankfully, we are not plants.
You’re not crushed between a book’s pages to be ogled.
I was uprooted, as I should be (I have feet).
I can walk this green earth, stepping on your remains,
and live to admire a lily for its fragrance. 

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