The garden is in shambles, bindweed choking
the asters and butterfly bush, coneflowers gone to seed
in narrow cracks in the driveway and along the steps
leading up to the house, poppy mallow vining its way
across the sidewalk, lacy skeletons of grape leaves
gasping on the iron trellises. Empty tomato cages half buried
beneath the mildewed lilac bush, unopened bags of mulch
she meant to spread between the plantings, before
it got too hot and the weeds took off, tools leaning
against the front of the house, the striped hose
like an overgrown garden snake
slithering through tall grass.
She takes a pair of rusted hedge clippers
and hacks away at the nameless evergreen
in front of the porch, originally planted for its abili
to grow in poor soil and construction-site rubble
rather than for any charm of its own,
now grown so high it has attracted the attention
of the neighborhood safety officer, who warned her
that covering the front windows like that
is an invitation to thieves, but failed to mention
the secluded back yard, the sliding patio door.
Not for the first time she wonders if perhaps
she is missing something. Could this
ordinary foundation planting, in the hands of
a topiary artist, become something spectacular,
a dinosaur standing guard beneath the front windows,
scaring off thieves and safety officers alike,
with its armored plates and spiky horns.
As it is, the bush mostly serves to hide
an embarrassing assortment of junk—empty flower
pots, half bags of potting soil, trowels and cultivators and
garden gloves, a rusted pail that holds the smoker
she and her husband use to calm the bees.
Earlier in the year the bush also hid
a cardinal’s nest with two naked hatchlings
she watched from inside the house as
the parents took turns flying in with bugs
to stuff down waiting throats, until one day
she noticed a deadly silence filled the porch,
the chicks no longer chirruping in their nest,
the nest empty, the parents gone.
