Suburban garden

My garden in suburbia,

you separate me from the

impenetrable unliving playground of men.

You are not of men.

Your trees sway languidly in the fading

light, creaking a grandfather’s well wishes

for the night.

Your grass grows boisterously

unheeding to cement or chairs,

phased not by memories of blades.

Deliciously hopeful.

Your shrubs and young trees

house generations of

cockatoos, rainbow lorikeets, mynas,

pigeons, magpies, and the unseen

but not unheard others

who diligently maintain conversation,

unlike the silent hens

with their suspicious eyes and

ever-watchful twitches of the head

a deep cluck, a long stare,

saunter away.

The sky tells a narrative,

just as the trees do.

The peaceful death of a day,

the glowing birth of another.

And that ancient grandfather tree

rocks and nods his approval

at the simple majesty

of it all.

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