The tattered garden next door
reminds me of a bum
sleeping on the street of dreams.
A luxurious garden, it once was
telling seasons in blooms of color
following the careful tending of soil.
This time last year, the garden was blousy
until the owners had to vacate
leaving the perennials unattended.
Fall faded leaves flutter down
gently into piles of broken pottery
and moss-covered ground.
The once worm-burrowed earth
is now hard on the surface, like clay
newly fired, blackened in the kiln.
So the eyesore grows
from grandeur to humbleness
to shame in the blink of a season.
Living gardens require care,
attention, and constancy like a
beautiful bird preening before a mirror.
Will this garden know what it is
to live again with renewed youth?
I gather not, it remains forsaken.
A skeletal reminder of
what happens when dreams, once full
begin to run on empty.