Yards

We live secret lives hiding
behind masks of mutual
pleasantries as we walk
our dogs, stretch our legs,
work quietly in our yards.
But these yards keep secrets
poorly. They reveal us to our
world more clearly than
we could ourselves.

Eastward my neighbor's 
carefully curated lawn,
shrubs, flowers give way to
substantial but well-contained
wildness, trees, vines, anything
which chooses to grow there.
"He bites off no more than
chewable, this one," says
his yard. "He values order,
beauty, ornamentation. 
His dogs bark freely—why not?
They come when he calls, they
serve him. Who needs more?"
I cannot see his front yard:
perhaps something deeper?
I think not; well-maintained in
back means more so in front.

Southward lies bare minimum.
Years ago, ten or more, she
planted irises 'round her
mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front 
or back, which can be seen from
street or another's yard.
In back lies one small patch 
of grass, some flowering trees.
Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded
solitude lurks her tool shed,
never visited, never needed.
Twice each month she brings
in mowers to keep her lawn
in check. She limps to deck,
to her car. I surmise once
someone else lived with her
who took more interest.

Northward lies ambition,
community, family. Just 
prior to pandemic's pause,
its yard under new management,
benches appeared around
one fire pit. Party lights 
dangled between trees,
firewood racks popped up
along their back fence,
which received repairs 
inside one year. Next they
tore off rotten wood, remade
their basement, attached
two decks amazing for their
sturdiness, their beauty.
"When Jesus comes back,
those decks will still be there,"
he told me. No lawn appeared 
in back after previous residents
let chained dogs wear it down.
Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping
gear occupied some space.
Everything about it screams
"Family! Friends! Comfort!"

Here? Our yard underwent
metamorphosis as I allowed
'natural' grass to grow unchecked
until I realized its invasive
nature. Then, shaggy 
unkemptness gave way 
to nothing-but-garden.
Its haphazardly located plants
reveal how poorly my dreams
get realized. Our back yard,
torn asunder by summer's
torrents, reveals how ill-
conceived our landscaper's
plans, leaving nothing but
soil to wash away...while
revealing my trust in what
others promise me. Now,
unwanted green strangers 
laugh at me: "Go ahead,
pull us up! We have more 
numbers, more patience
than you. We will prevail."
And so they shall. My yard
says, "Good intentions,
poor follow-through. Perhaps
some sense of romance."

27/100