I was at our first place today.
The garden we made was a mess, the pathway pebbles strewn about.
Bricks in the wavy wall were all out of their stacks
And dandelions dangled in the unmulched squalor.
What a pile of dirt your mother brought
That you raked out and planted,
I contained,
And dotted with sprinklers for the absent rain.
Was it for nought? No, not.
Fond memories fare well amid the rot.