In my backyard,

Stalagmites of grass

green as spring

scattered amongst brown,

withered stalks spreading life where there was none.

Wind, flowing past,

chilling,

bustling past wind chimes,

Whispering for the clanging grimy metal pipes to come to life once more.

Christmas lights.

Hanging from the dark-stained, beaten pavilion,

sparkling,

like vessels of the sun.

The loud whooshing of an airplane,

quiet,

faint,

gone.

The smell of crisp yet wet leaves that can be only described as

“snipedt”

wafting through the air.

Faint,

mumbly voices of neighbors

ride through the air.

A wooden playground,

rough and splintered from years of play,

Created by a fortress and an A made of wooden pillars

Connected by a single beam,

drowning in tumbleweed like morning glories defiantly lives on.

On the left, a slide,

yellow as buttercups,

rolling like waves, down,

down,

down.

In the middle,

swinging from it,

a blue swing,

rusty,

creaking,

broken,

empty,

once grasped with grubby minuscule hands,

once the highlight of every day

Now

empty

Waiting

For me to come back