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The house the gardener built
Over fifty years of work,
And her gardens in the woods

She’d spent those decades growing,
She sold when she grew too old
And moved to a place in town.

The people who bought her home
And her gardens in the woods
She’d spent those decades growing,

Lasted one snowy winter
And fled. By the end of spring
The house was on the market,

Empty and largely ignored,
Dead Christmas tree on the porch.
Green grew over everything,

And the surviving flowers
Were spreading into the grass.
Carpenter ants on the deck

Explored the widening cracks.
The last, large set of wind chimes
Pinged softly in a light breeze.