Her ideas are now like fog in an awkward environment
such as the desert
yet she’s never been good with detail:

this idea she had—to plant a garden in the Mojave,
watch it grow with little water, watch it
perform miracles, watch the neurons sprout
from little to nothing, appearing as a storm, a tornado.

The doctors have said these will never come back,
it will never come back, but the garden grows
in the back yard by the patch of dead grass.

The detail is gone; the fog remains
over the widely spaced creosote bushes of the Mojave.