The Graveyard
A poem by Nickie || May 14, 2026
Our house has a collection of old planters that my husband jokingly calls,
"The Graveyard."
They're kept between our house and the neighbor's fence,
In the most hidden spot of our backyard.
Some pots still have dirt and dead plants inside,
Left to decay in the shade of the
Weeds that grow around them.
Each Spring, my husband takes inventory
Of the new additions to the pile,
Always asking to confirm before removing
Another plant victim,
As if I'm going to respond and say,
"No, actually I think I can revive
The plant with the brown, crispy stem."
He cleans up my messes.
I love my dead pile of plants.
They may not be beautiful or welcoming,
Like those in neighboring yards.
But each dry dirt pile is a time,
I promised to myself,
I was going to change.
Each hollow, cracked bucket
Is an echo of when I told myself
I was going to do better.
They are a testament to the fact
That I still believe
The lies I tell myself.
But everyone knows I struggle with
Underwatering and letting the weeds take over.
The Graveyard is my mirror.
Still, as I write this,
Two pots hang in my front yard,
With blooming red, pink, and yellow petunias.
I've tricked myself again.
