On the day the world died

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

world died.


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.