The first flower
grew from a glass bottle
and flush filled rooms
with yellowed light.

The first flower fell in the first week,
kept between pages of a Latin book,
with words he could only mouth –
the language too tough to chew.

As a boy turned man
his fingers slowed, delicate
in the art of common green,
and she – hush lipped.

In rain they wed
without words,
only the exchange of silver
to skin.

He planted her a stone-fruit orchard,
where plums drew stains on opened hands,
and the flesh of fruit fell
between turned earth.

In the last spring did she tend the trees;
the hem of her skirt bunched to the thighs,
as she stripped the fruit for twenty jars of jam
and a tin of golden butter.

In the winter she grew cold
and no blanket could bring a backbone.
The garden grew without her winded voice,
and he, steady with his shovel.  

She paused in breath,
and he folded into himself -
felt his fisted heart
burst with the strength of a year.