In a heap of old leaves and mulch
and rotting scent of old soil
her red hair trails along the ground
dried spring daylilies in a garden past season.
Her mottled white hand pokes up among the mushrooms.
Somewhere you can see the faded blue
of an old hippie skirt. Words scurry away
when you poke the leaves, from eating the remains
of decomposed chrysanthemums.