Standing,
arms outstretched,
in the center of a field.
The soft dirt crumbles beneath my feet,
kicking it about,
feeling it run through my fingers.

It's poisoned.
You can't see it.
Not yet.

Offer him a garden full of roses.
Pick out the seeds I need,
bury them in the dirt,
and wait for them to grow.

I've tried this before,
but this time is different I feel.
Really want this,
perhaps I can be a gardener this time.

Still, sometimes forget to water them,
sometimes forget they're even there,
but I try the best I can.

The roses start to grow.
The short stems slowly gaining height,
leaves mature,
a few buds appear.

It's enough.
He believes he'll see the flowers.
I want him to see the flowers.
I want to give him that garden.

But the thistles begin.
Sprouting up everywhere,
infesting the roots,
choking the life right out of the glorious flowers.
Weeds all over.
I can't get rid of them.
The ground is rotten.
Can't grow anything but weeds.

He stands in the middle of that field with me,
and heart-wrenching pain fills my body.
I look around me,
and I cry.

I can't give him that rose garden.
Can't give him anything,
but a field full of thistles.