The deer munch on that cool, dewy snack
Of hostas;
As if I placed them just for their early morning stroll.

The roots
Of the dead ferns
Are withered and twisted;
Appearing to have toiled the long years required
Of this once-tobacco-farm. 

The blooms
Of the twelve-year-old hydrangea
Have appeared for only the second time 
in all those summers.  
Perhaps
The eight-foot azalea
Residing beside it has stolen all the nutrients,
Like an aggressive twin.

The seventy-year old peonie
Blooms on cue as if she were
Still a teen,
In search of a worthy suitor.  

The same love and care
Are given to all.
Some thrive.
Some do not.

Still the hummingbirds
with the vigor of youth
On their beating wings,
Return thirsty.
Summer-after-summer.