A new crop is rising,

A crop of hats, mittens,

 

Dog toys and charcoal grills,

Picnic tables and croquet mallets,

 

Ripped tarps and broken flower pots,

All forgotten, abandoned when winter forced us inside and slammed the door behind us.

 

A crop not intentionally left behind, just not thought of

In the business of life, lack of day and lengthening nights.

 

Our forgetfulness was hidden by darkness.  In the awakening Spring,

The rakes and shovels are still hiding behind the trees, but

 

The lawn chairs and gnomes are springing up

From their blanket of snow,

 

They rise like statues, offerings to the Gods of Winter.

The snow retreats from their shoulders, knees and feet

 

To reveal the flattened un-mown lawn beneath them,

Left over proof of our Autumn failings.

 

We stare from our windows at the litter of

Leftovers and wonder how we could have forgotten them all as

 

They look back at us with blank faces,

Trying to pretend that it never really happened.