|Image by author: Back yard, hard edited.|
Over the fence what was once a garden
ten, twelve, fifteen years ago
has rendered itself unrecognizable;
a winding of undergrowth, an overgrown tangle
of weeds and vines, sumac and bittersweet.
The old owner of the land passed on long ago,
his tiny hoarder’s cottage left to a friend.
Uninhabited, left as tinder to burn to the ground—
faulty wiring or arson for insurance...we’ll never really know.
The sun has dipped now below the horizon,
dusk turns to darkness, the former garden
takes on an other-worldly view—
shadow images of arms and hands
stretch out, reaching for the waning moon.
The soft rustle of leaves can be heard, interjected by
the crackle of a branch snapping now and again—
perhaps a skunk or some other wild denizen of the night,
but more than likely one of three feral cats whom
have adopted this yard and made it their home.
The sound of a passing shower, raindrops on tree tops
adds its whisper to the chorus
odors of wet leaves and dampened earth
come slipping through the screen.
There is a certain comfort
in the night sounds, a normalcy…
a sense of security;
counterbalancing the chaos
to erase the lunacy of the day,
I close my eyes now, and surrender
and to my dreams, now slip away.
© Ginny Brannan 2017
* Quote from children's book, "Goodnight Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown