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."