For reasons we can only guess

This year our garden was a mess

And neither Husband Dear nor I

Could help, despite how hard we'd try

And yet, just slightly to the north

Our neighbor managed to put forth

The kind of yard I've only seen

Displayed in Sunset Magazine

Although we didn't try to match

The harvest of her garden patch

The meager produce we did grow

Would hardly fill a teacup, though

Her crop stands proudly, fat and fine

While ours just withers on the vine

I'm sure without my fence as guard

Our plants would flee to her backyard

So more than any other year

I feel quite useless when I hear

How green and fertile is her thumb

While mine has gone completely numb

I'm hoping when she reads this poem

She'll share the bounty of her loam

If not, we'll quietly embark

To then go picking after dark

Carol Smith

West Seattle