At the edge of the lawn

where the grass begins to grow wild

and creep into the dark

growth and mold of the woods,

a tree limb,

some young succulent,

maybe a mulberry,

rubs intimately against my storage shed,

propping it up,

leaning sunny against it,

caressing a rough wooden hip,

a painted flank blistered by seasons of rain and sweat,

an old board

that grew young somewhere once before.

Now a soft tar-paper shingle is pressed aside,

in sweet reckless adoration.