A Poem
The back yard has overgrown. It was too much to keep up with along with everything else. I bought brush killer and a pump sprayer, but all I can think of: the birds. They love the brush. They inhabit what was forgotten. The twisted roots and overgrown weeds and saplings, stubborn and wild. Our love tossed to the wayside. Oh, how we were entangled. I hoped the roots were deep enough. That somehow, in the brush, the lush green of our hearts would be enough. But the weeds are cruel and strong. And love can only hold so much. And the green shoots scattered about are smothered by brown rope vines. Tonight, a cardinal rests on a tendril. She sings her song, still.