The Garden

The garden, like me, is rather disheveled these days,

too many green things unkempt and growing wild,

as they will, a disarray of leaves and stalks,

a bud or two, gravid but unopened, waiting

for its own time to blossom and bloom,

and trampled some, the dog squirrel-chasing through

or a red ball tossed and errant; the weeds, too,

and perennials share together this my garden space,

a crumbling ring of rock encircled,

requiring little care, little concern, little

taking care of, as I like it, a busy patch

I’m too busy to bother with, or lazy,

just letting it grow, letting it go,

tending itself, and doing just fine without the fuss,

left alone and growing, growing in the summer months

before autumn’s slow return and the winter’s snow.