My Brother’s Backyard

8 Apr

Tadalena Warner 2011








My Brother’s Backyard
By Tadalena Warner

Take a mental picture
That would be fine, if I’d remember
What I may see or hear about me
It will fade, as does my memory
It will decay as leaves of fall doth lay
Setting here in my brother’s yard
What does my wandering eye see?
Lost treasures and moments in history
A copper penny does lie upon the sand
Tarnished with reeds of pine and fake vine about
I sit upon a wicker rocking chair; it’s a place to rest in the morning air
Remnants of glass shattered about, an old pottery dish of some weight
A child’s toy truck all but destroyed, may have been Taytay’s item of joy
One of my brother’s blades used as a cutting aid, is rusted and perfectly aged
I sit by the back door below the steps, worn and the ashen blue has faded; only shadows remain
Clothes pins about found on the ground and two on the line
A screw with a blunt end makes it difficult to drill in, when securing a moment in time
A used buffing pad of cotton, thread, and twine
Shine up those areas exposed to what dulls a scattered mind
A bracelet of twine, carefully crafted by hands that adore
A little girl’s pleasure, left and not treasured by the one who did it worn
A plaque of love is missing its second letter
Perhaps it is lost or became…well, it’s no matter
That ornament of wood and wire was once admired and stood for moments gone
A twisted little flower has a big smile, now that it’s dirt was shaken off
Beneath the ground was where it was found
A spare tire was lost, but I unfortunately found, due to green from within
I will lose it once again, but my dear friend you’ve been warned
It’s whereabouts are somewhere behind this home
I look at my feet and see little ants that eat, oh, but they don’t eat me
I am not sweet, only covered in earthen debris, while contemplating leaving the you and me
The snowman and the land were nearby, but the clover mixed amongst there…
…where at this time has slipped my mind for reasons unknown
Perhaps it’s the fact that I can’t remember squat or that it’s getting past breakfast time
A pencil remains, as does the faceplate to the door
Along with a shell, a conch to be exact; little and white
The tip undoubtedly broken by some sort of commotion


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s