I was worrying on the day
the world died—thinking about
all the trivial things and sitting
in my garden watching the
birds fly and fly away, on the
day, in the hour, the world died.
And the sky was blue and the sun
shone on my face, and I kept
thinking on all that was missing on
this day, in this hour, that the
I was just alone in
the garden, the perfect garden,
not with Eve, just with my thoughts
and with a light breeze on the day
the world died, and there was nothing
but the slightest whisper to be heard.