With the Flowers

Down in the hollow below the sprouting lawn
behind the small white house
under the drizzling sky and the yellow-green maples
he dirties his work-trousered knee
against the ground, as he weeds debris
between the iris, budding.
 
His body is strong and thin
his hair grey
his brow white
and his eye dim..
For inside the house his wife,
his fat, garrulous,  narrow-minded, childish,
loving wife
is slowly dying.
 
Later the iris are blooming,
the sun is shining on the front walk,
on myrtle and violets,
and tulips against the yew
and the white house.
In a moist wind of lilacs
he stands on the walk shaking hands, smiling,
with his grey hair, and his soft eye still dim,
on his flushed face a disregarded tear.
 
Up the stairs and inside the door
chrysanthemum and gladiola
rose and carnation
white, and smelling sweetly,
tagged with cards of regret
crowd the knick-knacks on the tables,
and echo the patterned slipcovers.
Futile efforts of friends to fill an empty house.
 
                                                            (for R.and D., 1970s)