Sat, 25 April

Things left in the garden before coming inside: One boot. Its pair still on the foot that walked away. A trowel, blade down, as though the earth agreed to hold it. A chair, facing the beds with the patient attention of someone who has finally stopped trying to fix anything. Moss, which has been here longer than the gate. The gate itself, open — not forgotten, just undecided. The last of the persimmon leaves, which have no intention of being an elegy and aren't.