Overgrown Plot

The bindweed owns the fence now,

a green riot where the tomatoes

were supposed to climb.

Dry earth, cracked like old skin.

A terracotta pot, shattered,

its rim a chipped smile.

I saw it this morning, a familiar guilt,

a quiet ache for things left

untouched, undone.

The vines, they coil, they tighten.

Everything choked, everything mine

that I let go to dirt.

It hurts, a little.