Do Wildflowers Still Bloom Along Your Walk

Do wildflowers still bloom along your walk
at the house I've long since been.
Do they grow ambitious and fall lazily over
after a rain or summer wind.

Do your windows still let in the draft,
or do they keep out the whispering cold.
Does your bed lie still where it lied before
where we vowed we'd grow, together, old.

 
Do you miss anything of me, though
nothing of affection I deserve.
But does any fond memory therein live,
and persist as that in a jar preserved.
 
Do you hang paper sacks on your porch still
and watch the wasps cowardly fly by,
who mistake them for busy hornets nests,
and retreat into an azure sky.
 
Do you sit on your porch and drink wine
and smell the flowers along the drive,
and watch for the hummingbird to come,
smiling when at last he arrives.
 
Do you not sweep the porch anymore,
or clean the cobwebs from the glass.
Do you put out the hummingbird feeder still,
or does it lie broken in the grass.
 
Do you smoke cigarettes in the night
that lick your face with orange fire,
as you sit thinking on the wicker,
until at last, like the sun, you expire.
 
Do wildflowers still bloom along your walk,
or do they wither before they grow,
amongst weeds you no longer pull,
in a house, once home, I no longer know.