Weeds choke the garden, killing the pumpkins planted only months before
Half neglectful, the gardener begins to read, but only when she's bored
Finds it spiritual even
The weeding starts on the bank across the driveway
Pumpkins are dead
Let the dead bury the dead, she mutters
When she finally makes it over the side
A calm arrests her olfactory senses
Buried underneath, beauty thrives
She plucked a sprig of lavender
Devouring its sweetness of romance and promises and in a faint whisper, "God."
