An Abandoned Garden

By August I noticed the lack of care,

And now in September I feel the despair;

The rusting tools, the vanished rows,

Reveal an all too brief affair.

The hopeful beginning has come to a close

As a meeting place for sinister crows

And devious weeds planning for when

They’ll make this a plot where anything goes.

What kind of errant husbandman

Would let it fall to field again?

I think I know, I’ve met a few:

A fine egalitarian—

The type of man, a touch askew,

Who holds the universal view,

"To everything, a heart be true,"

But saves desertion just for you.

Robert Crawford

© 2001; originally printed in Troubadour: Best of
Rhyme.  Reprinted by permission of the author.