Overgrown Plot

The window pane, a cloudy view.

My patch out back, a tangled mess.

The weeds just grew, and grew, and grew.

A testament to my carelessness.

The trowel handle, rust-brown, deep.

Lost in bindweed, thick and strong.

What seeds I sowed, now lie asleep,

or just choked out, where they belong

to nothing much, just wildness here.

A green rebellion, uncontrolled.

Another thing I held so dear,

then watched its story turn to mold.

Some things you start, and then forget.