Between the three of us we had a garden of camellias. 
The whites were planted in the middle. By the time 
we changed our minds, the plants had taken root
and we took it as another lesson. The doctor
often found something wrong in one of us,
we assumed we’d grow feeble before old. 
Raindrops left puddles on our clothes laid out,
flattening the grass into our shapes. They would dry 
but, again, there was nothing we took for granted. 
If the sun came out, if thieves climbed our gates,
if naked spirits tucked damp shirts into their porous
ribs. On our side of the town, we referred to fluctuations 
in our collective karma for predictions for weather
and for genes. We had many ways to introduce ourselves 
but we said nothing. Said – where are you going?
and, have you eaten today?