I.
it isn’t much:
chairs crowded with cans of Rolling Rock
bleached by the sun’s touch
and bulldozed bamboo stalks
out back; out front, nothing—
empty space, garbage cans, paths blocked
by branches and twigs. from the porch swing
I see little but trampled leaves
in fall and stunted daffodils in spring.
II.
fall through spring, I sit and swing and grieve—
for sunshine or snow fall that weaves
through ancient, uprooted trees;
for wiggling, loose-tooth stars that plea
to fall anywhere but close to me.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
I.
it isn’t much:
chairs crowded with cans of Rolling Rock
bleached by the sun’s touch
and bulldozed bamboo stalks
out back; out front, nothing—
empty space, garbage cans, paths blocked
by branches and twigs. from the porch swing
I see little but trampled leaves
in fall and stunted daffodils in spring.
II.
fall through spring, I sit and swing and grieve—
for sunshine or snow fall that weaves
through ancient, uprooted trees;
for wiggling, loose-tooth stars that plea
to fall anywhere but close to me.
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