The Garden

Almost too heavy to bear

your white cheek on your white hand

draped like a willow wreath.

There is too much of weeping in the curve

of your neck as though it aches.

The summer sun is cruel to beat so

across your shoulder.

Winter's weight has not yet lifted from you

for all the full season's blooms.

Almost too much to bear

watching you from the doorway

sitting at the iron cross the flowers cannot soften.

But soon you stand

and shaking still reach out to take my hand.

It is almost too much

but summer will come at last.