a concrete path leads to the scent of lemons,
warm plums from your tree,
sweet tomatoes straight from the sun;
delicate orchids in chipped pots,
their stems flowered with pearl-white shells,
petals splashed with pink;
and your old shoes, covered in damp soil,
for the love of gardening.
there is no sound in your garden,
but I still hear the drag of your slippers
along the old concrete path,
the snap as you pluck a weed on your journey,
and your dog bark as he runs for a ball you’ve thrown,
the crunch of grass under his feet.
your greenhouse no longer hides a huge bird’s nest,
its lime-green leaves transported to my garden,
as promised; now that you are gone.