Little remains of Violet or her young cousin Iris
Their sere bones lie undiscovered beneath the birch
Itself a skeleton, bleached and accusing
Their deaths go unnoticed
Though leaves are impounded nearby
And garden tools arrested;
Locked away in a medium security shed
The graveyard lies now in the despotic grip of winter
The grim corpses well-kept secrets beneath the snow
Were they murdered by cruel frost, that ancient serial killer?
Their lower extremities hacked off by a gang of cutworms?
Were they garroted by brutal bindweed?
Violently raped by the dread Weed Whacker?
Iris spends the long winter nights in longing
For a skilled forensic botanist
But Violet dreams a better karma
And hopes to return as a long-lived oak
– William Dexter Wade
