Eve Escapes the Nursing Home
Adam finds her in the greenhouse again, touching
the stem of a tulip in this corner, the petals of a rose
in the next; her eyes take in peonies, gardenias,
carnations, lilies while her feet shuffle through
the rows, her fingers trail through just-watered dirt.
She tests the weight of each bloom in her hand, gauges
color, texture. She never smiles, never pulls a pot
from a table. He would have bought it for her,
brought it home and watered it on the days she can’t
remember how to hold a fork, bring a glass to her lips.
But her hands pick at stem and leaf, bud and thorn
unsatisfied while Adam trails behind, waiting for her
to turn and recognize him, for the inevitable question
in her eyes: Where is my garden?