Death and His Brother Are in My Garden Again

Death and his brother are in my garden again. Moving my plants around. They tend to their growth quite delicately Careful not to reap the harvest till the stalks matureAnd begin to lose their hair.

Death and his brother are in my garden again, Whispering to each other as they pull away the weeds. Plotting and potting each stem as it grows Making certain that the roots are shaken of regrets and debris Only to cut my life short more easily.

Does death have a sweetheart? I wonder. A woman whom he woes and waters with love? (As much as death can love any living thing, at all.) He gathers my blossoms into a beautiful bouquet Of lost souls and freshly cut lives.

To gift to the one who holds him near; She presses his dead heart to her breastThe bouquet of our lives to the other.