You water thoughts of despair,
Then wonder why the pretty ones
Never come to sit.
You chase away sweet changes,
And ask what are you to do.
You circle your poorly mended garden
With a net.
Gentle butterflies avoid.
You knock on the door of a hornet nest
And demand a fight,
To prove you've still got one in you.
Your garden, overgrown with weeds,
Provides you support to lay your head,
Comfort.
To cover up the memories,
You poured cement over your garden.
You spent a summer building
A basketball court,
Hoping that there would come a use for it,
Hoping for a visit.
You used to like basketball.
The weeds grow through the cement,
But you don't spend long in your yard anymore.
Walking away proves more satisfying.
Why won't the pretty ones ever come to sit?