Untitled
I can’t ever know what flowers they gave her,
on that brittle coffin,
Because those flowers belonged in the garden she made,
(That after they let grow wild and seething)
And kept in her eyes was a kindness worth more than what fate gave her,
That broken body, untrustworthy spine
And I hope she looked through her garden
One last time
Before they gave her to the roots
Copyright © Jay Yeats | Year Posted 2018
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