Scott Bailey >

Front Yard



A terracotta plant is nowhere to be found.

The squirrels and birds conduct,
chase me, and I'll chase you back.

Even the branches breaking in this flirtatious rustle
bet on who will reach the ground first.

A worm in the wet grass leisurely smokes a cigar
while contemplating beaks breaking his back.

A dog eats a stick rather than retrieving it.

The vine wrapping the tree spirals,
the more I hold, the less I want to travel.



Front Yard

A fence has been under construction
for some years now.

My landlord tells me, borders
are easier when they come with time.

Before long, everyone will covet
my side of the fence

where a stone bench
heavies with kamikaze acorns.

Where a pile of gravel meditates,
the morning sun filters through holes of a rusty barrel.

Someday, if all goes as planned,
the gravel will cement and transfigure to fence posts.