Her Garden

he and the carpenter stood together in the back yard
discussing the future of her garden, the position of
the berry brambles that tended to lean over the stone
path leading to the backyard, whether the tin roof
should be replaced with cheap plastic that would let
the sun in until it turned yellow and stained.
she would never forgive them when the berries
no longer draped themselves over the stones
as offerings from the gods, when the tapping
of rain drops was against cracked plastic that
needed to be replaced every five years, the
shards decorating some distant landfill.
this is her garden of flowers scattered among
the stones, where black ravens bow their heads
to drink clear water amidst irises pushing up
from a long winter sleep.