Mornings. Nights?
Days. Years.
Nothing changed.
Everything changed.

I do not know myself.

I have no energy
to pluck the cactus
out of the ground.
Plant seeds.

Grow anything
unprickly,
that swings in the breeze,
wilts without water.

He liked cactus.

Now that he's gone
into an eternal somewhere,
I like watering them.
Drowning them.