the garden here is dying

in spite of the fact I watered it once

I soaked the roots of the japanese maple with a bucket

and sang to the lilies sweetly

with tenderness I caressed the hydrangea blossoms while

          gently hydrating the stems

          with quaint watering can

                    white with red flowers painted by hand – how well I remember it

the lawn I lovingly bathed with spray hose not sprinkler

          drenching the dryer spots with a carpet weaver’s slow diligence

          and plucked its weeds like splinters from a child’s hand

oh how I doctored and prayed! so

imagine my dismay at the wilting,

the drooping, decay and withering, in spite

of the way I one time slaved

so vivid in my memory

that time I watered the garden