The Garden of Memories

Due to the whims
Of human psychology, 
It's hard to know for sure
Whether my memories can be pruned
Or never fully plucked
And remnants remain.
But, in hindsight,
There is a garden of great beauty
In bloom
Above a few thorns.
The soil becomes less fertile
As we grow old
And die.

This is partially dedicated to my grandma in China with memory issues of age, but I won't go into the full details and complexity. See my other dark poetry here.