“En plein air”, front yard

Western North Carolina,

end of August 2020.

Neglected then, as now,

as the equinox approaches.

Seeds planted in sunnier days —

now overgrown and undisciplined,

reduced to sprawl beyond their tipped and bent cages,

to conquer the futility of my binding measures.

For their persistent efforts-fruit-

fallen, forgotten, foregone.

The new landlord cratered a hole in the yard —

an attempt to locate cracks in the foundation,

Mud and stone were piled round a yawning pit-

with a caution- don’t fall in.

The basin, abandoned to the elements,

promptly after excavation,

now gathers rainwater and runoff

to drain beneath the crumbling concrete;

washing away the half-hearted measures,

with ever-increasing effectiveness.

These simple symbols,

reminders, really,

or maybe metaphors for

sprawl, waste, tangled irresponsibility,

branches snapping under their own weight;

sweetness unsavored.

Shifting sands under national decay,

foundations built on swamp and bones-

with permanent structural damage

deemed dangerous,

still inhabited — despite deferred maintenance,

despite demands for overdue repair.

Structural rot, so unstable,

must be razed and raised again.

The truth, the painful-hard truth,

(now lost to the lie of comfort)

to produce and enjoy good fruit,

to rest in stable homes which welcome all-

requires generous,

patient,

hard work.

We must stand before the mess,

resolve to rebuild.

Move with urgency.

Rescue the goodness amongst the decay.

Else, we have nothing to show

but a pit of sludge and bed of weeds.