The Gardener

This is how the memory works;
Gathered fragments of
scent and sound
touch who we
used to be.

And immediately
the past becomes you
crossing a lawn,
gathering windfall
on the edge of twilight,

with close cropped grass
and aspen leaves
shaping your footprints.

Or your tobacco air,
almost tangible
under sun comprehending glass,
among grasping tomato vines
and the swing
of plastic spitfires.

As a mistle thrush recalls
sunlight and tadpoles
on a green-tinged pond,
the drift of dragon shaped clouds
across fat yellow roses,

these bare trees only
frame a disc of winter sun.

In November`s endings,
I watch you
plant and seed and fade,
wellington booted, corduroyed,
into the shrub and tumbleweed
of the years.