Her Body was a Garden

Her body was a garden,

he'd harvest every day.

Peony lips

and rose hips,

He would pick and pluck away.

Come right in and help yourself,

for there's plenty to go around.

But he'd never rake,

just simply take

until her soul became rootbound.

Her heart was ripe and ruby red,

a poppy oh so fine.

Her words would flow,

and his weeds would grow

as he bound her lips with twine.

Her arms were tiger lilies,

wrapped around him tight.

But when he was in her garden,

there was never any light.

At night she'd lie awake and cry,

hot teardrops soaked the soil.

Seeping down beneath the ground,

he caused her seeds of love to boil.

What grew instead of flowers

in her garden deep inside,

was a white hot ball of heat and light,

that fed off hate and pride.

His welcome in her garden bed

had ended like July.

Then when he tried to take his stake,

she thought she'd rather die.

She sat down in her garden and wept,

for what was dead inside.

Oh, my darling, now shift your gaze

to what remains alive.

Her garden started back to life,

The moment he was gone.

Flowers bloomed, birds and bees,

bold crickets sang their songs.

Trumpet vines unfolded,

there was jasmine on the air.

She plucked a purple lupine,

and tucked it snugly in her hair.

She twirled and danced under the moon,

like wildflowers in the wind.

She was the magic garden,

And it was like he'd never been.