these rustic greens and browns are lonely
for the want of vivid flashes of butterflies wings.
Flower beds running riot
and entwining in the long grass,
lapping at the edges of the stagnant pond
containing one, self satisfied, solitary fat fish.
The bird feeders,
neglected since December first, have run empty,
They no longer come here and fill the silence.
Everything in the greenhouse
has withered brown and dried.
In the midst of mourning I forgot your garden,
but with work and time it will be alright,
the hardiest plants always survive.