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.