Neglect is an overgrown garden.
Tattered gardening gloves buried beneath the soil’s surface.
Blackberry brambles towering over wrought iron railings.
Poison ivy wrapping its thick tentacles around the bamboo trellis, weaving between the witted tyrian purple clematis.
And the rotten tomato crawling with black ants.
If only a gardener intervened to turn the dense forest of weeds into a lush haven of hydrangeas.
If only blackberries were picked when they were ripe.
If only someone cared enough to tame the wild kudzu creeping up the side of the brick chimney.
And if only the tomato was plucked from the vine before the plague of aphids.