Lady, I should have watered
your garden—your thyme, your sage—

but I was drained.

Too many feeders I couldn't keep filling,
the birds drifting slowly away ...
too many half-used little houses
nailed up, abandoned—

meanwhile tending my separate nest,
fighting cowbird instincts.

You're out there, pruning—
no, slashing, dissecting—the mums.
I sink back to my bed,
green, silent, ill-bred,

a chickweed edging your garden.