circle_of_one

Gerry's garden was a thing of beauty,
vegetables here, berries there,
flowers in front and back,
everywhere green.

He is God's gardener now.
I told him he would be in the hour
of his death, and he tried
to smile, so I know it as fact.

The little hill he had terraced
has run to weeds, a riot
tamed once a year by
the lawn maintenance men
who sweat and speak Spanish
out there in the summer sun.

With Zack the Cat now gone
to his catly reward,
bless his one lop ear
and devoted heart,
the neighborhood cats
come by the patio door
to look for him, ready to hiss,
but he isn't there.

So they sit out in the grass,
facing the ruined hill,
watching the weeds as if
they were a tv show.
Once in a while, a cat will pounce,
hearing a rustling of critter
among the greenery.

I watch them from the kitchen window,
keeping quiet so as not to spook them,
my transient company
in these solitary days.