The Elderly Gardener

The old maid in the garden shuffles about.
Her shears flick here and there.
She finds a flower she’d like to keep, and
Cuts it free, without a care.

“A lovely Cleobis flower,” she whispers.
Red sap stains her robes, once white.
Another snip, and Biton joins his brother.
She sees another blossom, rare and bright:
“This Patroclus looks vibrant. It should come as well.”
She takes her treasures to a pedestal.

A bell jar is lifted and replaced,
The fresh flowers laid beneath.
Now, frosted glass seals out the world,
Shielding beauty with translucent memory.

Innocence forever is safe now –
No rot can touch these glorious blooms.
The elderly gardener, gentle crone,
Protects the pure with eternal peace.

Love forever is gone now –
No loving touch can reach these sterile blooms.
The ancient poacher, vicious hag,
Cuts joy short with terrible silence.

A wind steals through the garden:
The flowers bob, bustle, and sway.
A whisper curses the poacher’s name;
A whisper exults the gardener’s name:
“Atropos, the bittersweet, most blessed
And most wretched of the gods.”