Garden

The magnolia-patterned teapot
is buried in the autumn-littered garden.

I cannot tell if the garden is weeping,
if the rum-blurred shadow is mine or another’s. 

I try to remove the plum wine from the linen, 
the time-rust from a memory - 

as if the love letter between a dusty book
could take the shape of a mourning husband. 

My nettle-blistered hands dig
for the teapot in the soil
                     
                      and the garden weeps.