the hanging tree sways over moss stones
a playground of crumbling waste

James cries on the east side
and sings when I read poetry 

we spend my days running through weeds                                                                            he doesn't falter

I bring roses to the east side
But only when it rains

waiting for wet grass seems pointless
on Tuesdays

and before the drops fall from the aging sky
I grow restless for a future

I have yet to return to the garden
and James is waiting for his roses

but my kingdom is getting smaller
and I'd swear it rains less than it used to