Weather-worn fencing demarcates
the property line between the neighbors’ Eden
and a less fertile yard that situates each of my mornings.
I promise not to water the spring flowering plants
that remain as browned stubble on the chins of my terrain.
I leave for the rains to take care of dried foliage and feral-cat piss.
I let the Japanese maple swat away the aphids on its own.
Nevertheless, purple-spotted brush poke through
plywood boards, two calla lilies take root,
birds return, whistling to lost mates today and all days,
until dusk beckons them to come, come
back to the nest and try again in the morning.
first appeared in 12 Ways: an anthology of the 2007 Intergenerational Writers Lab (Kearny Street Workshop Press 2007)