Your garden has not died, though it has grown wild, the ivy overtaking the trills, conquering the rooftop. Yet we have kept the front lawn tame, the bushes in check. The money plants begin, right on schedule, their indigo expanse unfolding as if on cue in some exotic ballet. They will thin into the expected silver discs in time. What you planted will not forget you, as nothing made can turn from its creator. Even in darkness, the leaves will soldier on.
Jennifer Rollings is a writer living and working in the Pacific Northwest. Her poetry has appeared in Every Writers Resource, WordWrights!, and the journal Ardentia.