When Roots Give Up

The wooden sign hangs crooked

on rusted wire, the paint cracked

and peeling like old scabs.

Beneath, the garden beds—once proud—

now tangled in ragged weeds,

as if they learned to forget how

something green could live here.

A broken watering can lies

on its side, rust blooming like a bruise.

No laughter drifts from this corner,

just the weight of falling leaves.

The city council’s letter rests

in my pocket—words sharp as glass—

a promise that the soil will die

under asphalt’s quiet crush.

How does a place

where life should be loud

slip down into silence?

Like roots, I guess,

it just gives up.