One Last Look

The house was done,
Stripped and drained of the stuff of life,
 Like a corpse,
And infused with the cold liquids of gloss and polish
That simulate a life within,
Absent the heartbeat.
The illusion is of perfecton
That all, unblemished, is a possibility here.
But the rooms have a hollow echo.

On to the outside,
To the flowers and the plantings.
We work in the warmth of the doomed sunlight,
Clipping, pruning, digging and even replanting,
Trying to restore what had been lost
When the force that was its creator
Weakened, and then died.

The chill remains inside;
Out here we have more hope.
"You can live on here," I breathe.
Flowers symbolize eternal life,
Don't they?

One, and only one, last look, I tell myself.
So, just before a year has passed,
And against the voices that tell me no,
I drive down the familiar road.
The early promise of budding life
Calls for me to see what she had loved,
And what we'd tried to keep alive.

The tulips should be ready,
The giant peonies showing promise,
Her beloved roses still waiting,
The scores of other flowers and shrubs,
Chosen from her yearly catalog searches
Soon to emerge into various displays.

The glory of the street, and her special pride:
A  lovely and rare Variegated Butterfly Bush,
Carefully pruned and nurtured
To dominate this spring, to be a standout amidst beauty.

I drive my car past her house without looking yet.
I circle the loop and stop in front.
The side of the house where her flowers once grew is   
Empty--
The entire area barren, dug up, just black soil,
Awaiting, without doubt, a new imprint.
The butterfly bush has been cut down, gone.