eight years old
i stood and stared at the floor,
a mosaic pattern
of intertwined flowers,
the pattern always there,
leaning my back against the cold wall
as mirror, clock and chair
and box after box
went out of the open door

where laughter had echoed before
i heard the wind sigh in the rafters
and the creak of the wood on the stair
there was nothing but empty rooms

the flowers drooped their heads in the garden
as i did, in despair, in the hallway
at a death that had come to soon
i saw no adventure ahead
nothing remained
nothing bloomed
after the gardener was dead