Backyard on Willow Street

Shoulder to shoulder

cuts of wood stand royal guard

safely surrounding

Grandma and Grandpa Tobin's backyard.

Blue Jay's unrestrained balance

on red delicious weighted

down limbs, s

w

a

y

in greeting with the wind.

Twigs strung tightly, bed chirping babes,

who awaken safely

three branches above dew-covered ground.

Another cool breeze tickles the neck. Shivers run

through five-year-old toes,

that wade, that SPLASH,

upon waterholes, scattered around the trunks base

w .a .i .t .i .n .g

for thirsty roots to suckle them dry:

before chirping babes fly,

before brown leaves scatter,

before rotten apples fall hard on frozen dirt.

Toes c-r-e-e-p gently over two by fours.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

sleeping splinters lie. Among soft soil,

soul food seeds sprouted stems. Their fur-covered

leaves t

w

i

s

t,

striving for crepuscular rays of affection.

Loved from land to hand, plump

red strawberries, r

o

l

l

into baskets. Breaking green pods

in rhythm with Grandma's hands, tossing

protein-packed pellets

bink

bink

into silver tin. Sharing stories of olden days,

Nebraska basement chickens awaiting

heads being wrung.

Twenty chimes CLANG and ding, a symphony

composed with wind.

Their garden,

full of life, and laughter cycle

with the moon and sun.

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