Relic
Your garden
now is empty, barren ground,
not
desolate of flowers but of you.
A ring I
gave you was there lost and found
among the
leaves that fitful breezes blew.
Today I
wish that twist of gold still there,
a buried
treasure in the soil you tilled
when scents
of roses floated on the air;
where you watched
stars when busy days were stilled.
It does
not rot; far better had it stayed,
a little
crock of gold by fortune spared
for that
small acre where the gift was made,
a lasting relic
of a pleasure shared.
Yes, there
are things, delighting us when found,
that would
be better left beneath the ground.
