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Shrine for a Shrew
The crows in the big tree drink silence
counting feathers after last night's storm
The rose gardener at number 32
smiles quietly
shrugging over his toast
He would have told her
how hard the ground was this year
how we needed every last raindrop
that there would be petals
to sweep from the path
She would have told him
how idle he was
Making sure he knew
about the crumbs he dropped on the floor
and that the washing up
couldn't wait...
But there were no more words
no more differences
to quibble over
no more first things first
Only the scent of the roses
soothing the thorns of her memory
as each new day
pushed it deeper
down into the earth
After he'd dug the hole
watched the concrete
he poured slowly and carefully
gurgling up over her face
into nostrils, eyes and ears
turning fine gray hair to stone
he had thoughtfully tossed in a note
to remind her always
about the beauty of silence
and its value in the home
For once he'd managed to enjoy
the luxury of the last word
and now everything in the garden
remained silent--
just like he
preferred
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