The Property Line

The wind took the slat that was holding the line,

a rotted-out piece of the neighborhood pine.

Now I can see through the gap in the wood

to the yard where the peonies used to be good.

It’s overgrown now, all thistle and vine,

creeping its way toward what I think is mine.

There are rusty nails weeping down the grey post,

marking the border that matters the most.

I should get the hammer and nail it back tight,

and keep all that chaos away from my sight.

But I stand in the mud and I look through the breach

at the things that are finally within my reach.