Dementia

To my window she comes

There's not much time

Tell me your secrets and and I'll carry them with me

Sprinkle them.on the wooden path, on top of your footprints

On good days, I sit at my window.

Open my broken mind, fish out my memories

And speak

Two by two in song, they drink my words and sing

I'm dying, but my body will go on functioning in this world

In the midnight hours, I busy myself

Boxing up memories, bitter and sweet

Rereading books and poems that contain words for stirring emotion

Saying prayers with the hopes of finally getting the meditation right

Once done, I close the box on my life and bury it

Underneath the bottle tree my husband made from the wine we drank

Before the last pile of dirt was out back in place

I beg and pray that I remember one Word, just one

Sprig of Lavender

 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."