Like Pearls of Time are Bones

Earth and salt could not be more real
Than the old woman in her garden.
Her old bones and her old eyes -
Aged, cultured -
And so, I say, like pearls,
Though not quite as lovely.
Still, death lends refinement
(Immortal lustre, in fact)
And silence is golden.
Her memories are collected neatly
And stored away like treasure
In a solid pine box, sealed by the earth
And the flowers and the vines.
They will be safe here,
These secrets in the sun.
The old woman will never tell
Another living soul.