The garden shears feel cold today

Heavy in my grip

You always said to cut away

Right above the slip

The soil is dark and cool and damp

Black under my nails

I'm pulling weeds beside the lamp

Where the garden railing fails

And I'm just the gardener here, I know

Paid to help the roses grow

But every deadhead that I clear

Is a conversation I can't have this year

And the lilacs are still your own

Even with you gone

Remember how you fought the frost

That morning in the fall

With burlap sacks and fingers crossed

Swearing at the wall

You said the hydrangeas had a right

To one more week of blue

I won the argument that night

But now I wish I'd lost for you

And I'm just the gardener here, I know

Paid to help the roses grow

But every deadhead that I clear

Is a conversation I can't have this year

And the lilacs are still your own

Even with you gone

This fence is rust, the gate is weak

It all needs a coat of paint

And there's a language that the seasons speak

That sounds a lot like a complaint

It sounds a lot like you

The shears feel cold today

Yeah, the shears feel cold today

Just cutting back the gray