The Garden (1)

The garden, That I can see from the kitchen window, As I clean the plates That I asked you to wash up this morning, Is starting to spill over.

The grass, That we meant to mow at the end of Summer, Now stands almost as high as the fence that surrounds The little bit of greenery That constitutes our back yard.

Your bike Is propped up against it – The fence – With a trail of crushed daisies spread behind. The path among the grass Leads back to the paving, To the back door, Through the kitchen To me.

I asked you not to leave your bike there, To use the bike shed That you almost finished building Last November. I asked you not to crush the daisies And you replied that they were just a weed. A pretty weed, I had said. But still, a weed, much like grass: Not worth saving.