I'll be back to pull the garden.    Spring has proven winter cruel.    And all of summer's beauty lies there rotting.    Stripped like yours from you.       And I know I    can't stand remembering    the dirt    under our fingernails.    The silence,    your defense;    tired over    tired hand.    And we spent December    given our best shot at hating;    but now,    as I remember,    we had no reason    to abuse.       I'll force God to notice    that He is giving nothing back.    And all of us were wet out in the boneyard;    He washed the tears from you.       And I know you    deserve none of this,    my distance    as we stole flowers    from his grave.    The silence,    my defense;    tired over    tired hand.    And I recall the ways    you pretended not to notice,    but we both sowed the soil    that grew only what could die.       And if you believe that I tried only to deceive:    you know that's not true.