i went out to the garden
and took my dinner there—
i read a handful of your poems
and stroked wee james’s fur—
i ate my broccoli omelet—
i drank rose-scented gin—
and then i took me back inside
for riley was the wind.
but i still thought about you–
and mused upon your work—
the similarities between us both
and other kindred hurts—
if one must be a poet–
then also gardener be—
for flowers and trees are more disposed
to offer sympathy.