Mummy Mary’s Garden

Branches withered, bark so dreadful

Empty cold, cold soul

Death

Appears austere

Copper-cold, rust bare

Haggard yellow, fungus-ridden

Crabapple long past prime

Lip-chapping, tear-filling

Northeasterly winds

Contribute to the myth

That this is all there is

It may never be warm again

The timing of the garden walk

Can be so misleading

Around the ides of March

And the first blooms on the mountain ash

Foretells a hopeful permanence

To which death just is the gate