Old aunt Mel was up at the crack of dawn
She sped towards the watering cans
With the briefest glance at the burials in her viridescent lawn.
In her garden were three sloppy graves
Dug hastily, as if with weak faith, they were
Scant, with no garlands on the tiny caves.
Most furiously she bent battered over the unfortunate blight
Holding the can desperately in her pale grasp
She watered the bare brown roots with all her might.
Next she poured litter into clean bowls that shone
With practiced precision the graves hadn’t known
Old aunt Mel never felt more alone.
Daily prompt: Denial (The Daily Post)