She was too good for the garden.
She could feel the flowers perish beneath her feet
And their last measures of life gave her
A power she could not understand or control.
The grass was grey to her eyes.
And all the petunias felt ashamed in her presence.
No wind could make them as beautiful as her.
The smell of the dew was sour to her.
How dare it dilute her own fragrance?
As a warm breeze carried her scent to the stones
She wondered if they knew their worthiness.
All the birds were overjoyed
And created new songs for her when she traipsed by.
But she was too busy planning her next conquests
To care what they had to say.
There was a life in the garden
More precious and profound than words could do justice.
That life was her
And she knew it.
copyright © 2008 Sean Shannon