Away from the house
Under the clothes line
Down the short ridge
And over the lawn
Go through the plum trees
That sprout round the ditch
Boldly step into your own primitive country
There are hills, but you can't see them
Grass and growth so tall, you can hardly see
You can wear many hats,
Any hat, here
There is the skunk tree
And the bush that can be hidden under.
The skunk tree has a mysterious x
Carved right there on the trunk
What does it mean, but that your hat today
Belongs to a buccaneer?
When you come back the way you came
You can stop in the valley
Build a nest for me and you.
We will be birds, feathered and safe.
My great-grandmother's home had a large back yard but after the back border of tangled plum trees, in the center of the block, there was a wilderness of imagination. I tried to put my feelings about this overgrown and protected place in this poem.