Through the house, past dead ants,
dusty floors and bookcases overfull with books
and games and more dust.
I push the neglected can of prayer requests
in front of the door to hold it open.
The warm air outside makes the
house feel cool.
Stepping outside, I smell bacon.
The cicadas are singing. I walk through
an invisible thread of spider silk
strung across the drive.
On the cement, tiny ants are busy.
Behind the crack in the pavement, and
the poke bush, the hydrangea
has a pink flower.
Near the mailbox, I pick up a yellow leaf
and a small red one. I leave the pecans
lie. Next door the neighbor’s lawn is as
neatly groomed as mine is not. English
ivy, elaeagnus and trees grow at
will over here.
A car goes by. Through
the newly trimmed bushes I see
my wild yard.