Disappearing Paths

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.


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