He cracked his eyes open
At the first signs of dawn
The time he usually begins the day
He quietly stifled a yawn
As he crept out of bed,
Carefully not to disturb his wife.
He put on his work pants and heads outside,
To visit the other love of his life.
He followed a trail to the back of the house,
Stepping on old stone slates,
He unlatched a small, make-shift lock,
And swiftly opened the gate.
He smiled as he saw his garden,
As if it was the first time,
He inhaled the wonderful earthy scents,
The basil, rosemary, and lime.
He ignored the tingling in his arm,
As he reached for the watering can.
He stumbled a bit and his vision blurred.
He suspected it was symptoms of an old man.
He tried to stand but he couldn’t
It was just too much,
He backed up to the side of the house,
He doubled over and clutched
His chest with his numb hand,
The other hand held on an oak.
He slid down the fading brick wall.
He realized he was having a stroke.
He cried out loud but no one heard him,
It was just him and his plants.
He spent his last moments savoring their beauty,
It was his last chance.
He slowly drifted away,
Among the beloved herbs and trees.
I hate the fact that he passed away, but
At least it was in the place he loved to be.