Lest there be weeping,
Amidst the willows.
As if I am not mourning the loss of a garden.
The inability to foster life itself,
The most basic acts of creation.
Gifting it away as one does.
I am merely an old mentor,
Living beyond their expiry.
It’s the simple things in life.
I need to feel the sun on my face –
Smoking,
As I water the plants.
Prepping for a run.
Tending to the perennials,
Like the children I hath raised.
Slow,
Constant,
Lovingly.
The monk mourns the loss of serenity.
The serpent writhes in agony,
Flailing at the sense of loss.
I have been told I would be a good father.
Despite the idea mortifying me.
I have raised thousands,
Best I ever could.
People and plants,
Of all types.
To nurture is divine,
Whispering my stories to a populace –
Maybe they’ll grow.
That’s always the hope.
That’s always the hope.
Smoke, Water, Run.
