gardening at the women's hospice

Her nails are smooth like the curve of apples
and their delicate passage from plate to mouth
mark almost visible lines of plaintive grace in the air;
bent knuckles hide strong, thin, Wedgewood bone
that do not crack or pop or creak like mine.

Mine are op-shop tack and kitsch and revel in
the brassy nagging of the dirt;
gaudy printed gloves, two dollar whore's enamel and
giant mugs splashed by sunflower patterns.
I am a candle, she is a chandelier

and yet, there is something democratic
in the tea, the flowers
and in the dying.