© 2008 Nancy J. Bond
Alas, another summer’s flown
And still, no garden of my own.
No rich-brown, tilled, earth-fragrant soil,
No garden plot in which to toil.
No lettuce, chard, zucchini, peas,
No grassy stains upon my knees.
No cupboard full of pickles…jellies
Made to sate our winter bellies.
No fragrant roses near the door,
No bright lantana’s insect lure;
No tall red poppies sway in breeze,
No paper birch or maple trees;
No tidy little potting shed…
Not one imperfect flowerbed.
Perhaps next year, I say, because
I think of everything that was
Once mine, and sigh and sigh and sigh…
As days and weeks and months slip by.
I guess I’ll be content with pots
Because, for now, that’s all I’ve got.
I’ll pack away my garden here,
And dream of flowerbeds…next year.