Some people might describe this yard as plain:
the locust trees and rosemary, all green
mother ferns and privet shrubs that grow
around the stump where children played; some gnomes
my son gifted to me, he thought a joke—
like volunteer plants that want to poke
through disappearing paths—(though most I wanted.)
There used to be flower beds I flaunted
like brightly colored scarves I sometimes wear
with heels and earrings to the theater.
But now that’s gone, and in the shade I sit
and sometimes just let idle thoughts drift
like dust motes that dwindle in the air
and aimlessly pollinate my hair.