A watering can douses the flaming sword jutting from the earth

Like a wayward sunflower

And the same hands rip the blade from the dirt

Like a silver dandelion

She's no Arthurian hero

She just needs a lockpick for the gate

"What a shame," she leans on her scythe and sighs

To who or whatever is listening

"Such a beautiful garden, and no one to share it with when I'm done."

No matter though…

Her time is better spent

Weeding the flowerbeds

Mending the shattered walkways

And sweeping up broken feathers and shed serpent skins

Than setting up for a tea party no one's coming to

"You really shouldn't have thrown them out, you know…"

She adds as she starts to close the gate behind her

Then thinks better of it

Perhaps one day someone will call on her

"if you were leaving anyway."