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.