Brown Bush

The neighbor’s bush, once green and round,

now brittle, reaching, making no sound

but the dry rasp of leaves. Each one a tiny

boat, marooned. I watched it shrink,

a little more each week, the color draining

out like bad ink.

The soil around its roots, cracked wide,

a map of thirst. I feel it inside,

that same hard pull, that tight-wound ache.

How much can shrivel, how much can break

before there’s nothing left to save?

Just curled-up brown, a shallow grave.