Where I am From

My Back Yard
Blue Jay,
Cardinal,
Little Squirrel,
My back yard,
Their whole world,

Tree tops blowing,
Light rain falls,
Fluorescent leaves,
Make colorful walls,

Birch tree,
Hemlock,
Big tall oak,
My back yard,
They do cloak,

Crows are cawing,
High above,
Through misting rain,
They stop and pause,

Rabbit,
Chipmunk,
An old ground hog,
Fleeting shadows,
Scurry across logs,

Old stone wall,
Gray and worn,
Waiting to fall,
It’s fate foresworn,

Hawk,
Owl,
Wild and free,
My back yard,
Reflects me.

Digging a Garden on Richmond Farm
Up before day on Richmond Farm,
Coffee on the table, a breakfast yarn,
Father and son, work day begun,
A garden to dig, under morning sun,

Gathering tools from an old gray wood shed,
The clap trap door, creaking hinges rust red,
A spade, a fork, a ball of old string,
Two stakes and a hoe, a rite of spring,

A downhill walk on the old farm road,
Between fallow fields, as the day unfolds,
A rabbit’s run, the sun rise red,
A ring neck’s cackle, silent words unsaid,

A spot well chosen on a flat lay of land,
Close by a stream, for watering by hand,
A plot of earth, measured rows laid out,
A white tail’s leap, with excitement I shout,

A young boy’s memory of six or seven,
A happy time, precious as heaven,
A garden to be tilled, crisp clean air,
A weasel pops out, as though on a dare,

Digging the garden in that fallow field,
Worms in a can, hoping for a good yield,
Fork and spade, turning the cool earth,
The hoe shaping rows, of dark brown dirt,

The effort and desire that day was there,
Did not at all last, for no reason unfair,
The soil so tilled, that early spring morn,
Untended did spoil, like my dreams unborn,

The garden lay empty as thistle did grow,
Choking out what was planted, what that day we did sow,
As spring turned to summer, and summer to fall,
The garden simply died, a dry weedy pall.