Morning runners crowd our street’s corner.
Behind mailboxes, laughter crashes into the sharp thwack
of pickleball. Beyond thermos steam and chalk lines, our neighbor
kneels, pruning her garden’s spent stalks.
Late summer, when her driveway lost one car,
she tended what remained. Crisp asters saved seeds for birds as her
puppy’s bell vanished, then the basketball hoop and half her patio
chairs. Arguments spilled
from windows, maple leaves from branches.
Now her children visit, speaking softly, if at all
while helping her mulch dormant beds and clear stems.
She’s crouching in cold soil, pressing tulip bulbs down —
promises that must be buried before they bloom.
