Next door cultivates perfection –
gardens pert with flowery blooms
like vibrant little soldiers heeding
the command of love’s labour,
shimmering with prideful confidence
My garden is overgrown vines,
chaos’ shameful exhibition,
bemoans the futility of planting,
knows there will be no follow through,
betrays the absence of love’s toil.
Life has schooled detachment
lessons in loss counsel defensiveness –
better to guard hope than plant it…
How can next door be so reckless;
do they not know this all for naught?
(This a rewrite of former poem also titled Next Door. Image my own.)