Unwilling

Shingles cover the rounded walkway
leading to the screened-in porch,
and even beyond and about--in the middle
of the sedum I didn't cut back this fall,
in front of the pansies, atop the hyacinths,
three feet from the knockout rose bush
my mom and dad planted the last year
of my father's life. It's been warm enough
to remove them, to uncover the covered,
to ship-shape the yard again so it looks
like someone who lives here cares, but the effort
has been greater than the desire, so I just
look at them from the porch windows,
from the street when I pull into the driveway,
from the rock wall when I sneak my smoke
out back in Daddy's garden, all the time
thinking I'm making some kind of point,
some mini rebellion, some statement
about who I am. But who I am has no idea
about how much she'll take, sitting here
alone, the need to hurt wearing itself
out like my old Hoover, clogged and filled
with the little sentiments neglect deposits
on all the days spent unmoved, no lover
or friend to make the willing worth doing.