My neighbor planned and planted our shared yard,
then moved away before she could observe
the fruits of cultivation. I regard
the lemon tree containers and the curve
of apple branches, and the graceful lines
persimmon limbs display against the sky.
I count on roses, wait for columbines,
and think my thanks while pleasuring my eye.

As winter treads toward us, the leaves amass
in soggy clumps among the roots and dirt.
There’s only one persimmon on the tree.
I’ve daily checked it through my window glass.
I’ve watched a squirrel chomp, a sparrow flirt;
it seems a token of tenacity.