Today's poem is by Sarah Carey

Everywhere We Once Knew Wildness
       

Past mounds of fuchsia azaleas,
raised rose beds, borders of purple-

spiked liriope, elephant ear, I race
through what's left of the neighborhood

we lived, will die in. Here, the oversized lot,
once thick with oaks. There, abodes

of embodied stability, sleepover—
dreams we could see in our neighbors'

sweeping routines, in faces
of parents hanging balloons

that would sway for weeks in trees
deflating. Through hawk's call, crow's caw

breeze past the home with overgrown shrubs
the owner will never tend

because her lover left, and between us, we all
have only so much to give back

to the ground, bending over and over
to unearth the dead, plant flats

full of any green hope
that might flower. From the jump

we knew here was where
we would settle, knew home

before sameness sank in. I round
a turn, return to crape myrtle, tea olive,

generations of bruised gardenias,
sprouted houses everywhere

we once knew wildness. Less is more,
we said, when we had nothing.

Copyright © 2024 Sarah Carey All rights reserved
from The Grief Committee Minutes
Saint Julian Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission