The garden,
That I can see from the kitchen window,
As I clean the plates
That I asked you to wash up this morning,
Is starting to spill over.

The grass,
That we meant to mow at the end of Summer,
Now stands almost as high as the fence that surrounds
The little bit of greenery
That constitutes our back yard.

Your bike
Is propped up against it –
The fence –
With a trail of crushed daisies spread behind.
The path among the grass
Leads back to the paving,
To the back door,
Through the kitchen
To me.

I asked you not to leave your bike there,
To use the bike shed
That you almost finished building
Last November.
I asked you not to crush the daisies
And you replied that they were just a weed.
A pretty weed, I had said.
But still, a weed, much like grass:
Not worth saving.