Ghost Yard

A pert yellow forsythia is peeking up
over the fence at my old house,
and the lilac is working on its buds in preparation.
The daffodils have run amok
since I moved across the street,
and the tulips and bluebells have survived their neglect
and still ring the giant maple.

All is neglected there, without a resident gardener.
The new owner tossed the picnic table
onto the iris beds, breaking the bulbs,
(and my heart)  with a single blow.
Not one iris has bloomed the past four springs.

It's a ghost yard, where likely my old wolf dog
still lives, in the green space that was his kingdom.
He must be wondering
where I've gone, why it is that his old home
looks so abandoned,
and why it is taking me so long
to return.