I died of a broken heart
long ago.
Weeds replaced me.
And being ignored
they made a garden by themselves.
Each one sought their place.
By a rock,
along the walk,
by cans and stones,
until after days and months and years,
there were among them,
violets and dandelions,
goldenrod and thistles,
crabgrass with its crotch,
lambs quarters with leaves
the shape of harps.
Young trees starting here and there,
maple and mulberry,
elm, locust,
and somehow
they resembled a heart
looking for itself,
telling the soul to come back.
Such a quiet, joyful place was here,
with crickets and grasshoppers,
butterflies competing with the bees.
As if starting over
began each day,
a new face on things,
reason enough for any hour,
what with morning sun
and evening shade,
and a way of growing
that puts things back together.