As the grass and the weeds die and wither

A building is growing — spots of color

but little diversity

My eyes are drawn to the yellow door’s handle

to the red door’s oval spot

calling attention to themselves

breaking up the rectangles, the squares

the patterns

everywhere else

 

But the ground and the grass

are not cut from cookie dough.

Maybe I missed something.

are they weeds?

are they dead?

will they see a resurrection

in the Spring?

 

Maybe the building is dying.

Maybe it’s the weed.

I see no life there.