Inside, the dust is patient. Clothes will wait
for washing, dinner undeclared. Outside,
the restless garden’s where her joy abides.
She reaches for perfection fogged in fate
as leaves are borne on late September light,
weaving through the surging lusty growth
of roses reaching. The garden does not know
that autumn tempts the air with longer nights.
Layerd in light, a morning mist now hides
the truth of what is right and wrong, the air
so sweet a taste that she is unaware
that we approach the eve of our demise.