I know dead when I see it.
Bile-colored leaves,
decomposing stalks.
I know about dredging
these small corpses
from the earth,
the heft of gathering remorse
in gloved hands.
A noticeable weight, yes,
but not so heavy considering
this loss was born
from these same neglectful hands. 
And yes, it was neglect,
those luxuriant black-sky days
when downpour seemed so certain,
those lolling humid days
when reading or sleep
were more important chores.
I know perennials,
they come back.
Like old boyfriends or lies.
Unwilling to be contained, popping
up when you least expect them.
Growing is what they do, even here
in this godforsaken place
I call a garden, a yard, a home. 
Yes, I know dead when I see it.

This poem first appeared in the Comstock Review.
Used here with the author's permission.