William Blackburn

To a new home we'd moved, up the road, further out of town

At the edge of that civilization

Broke ground did we neighbors, no gold-plated shovel, grubby hands to build these hovels

An inkling of wild imaginations

On a broad slope between estates, known for its rocky soil, twirling roots, and hard clay

No place for flowers or grazing

From this hillside of crabgrass and moss-laden limestone, we terraced steppe by steppe

Lilliputian metropolis lazing

Homes as hobbit-holes with false doors and wide lanes for double parking

Twisting avenues and byways

Country roads meandering, curling round, about, and under knee of maple tree

Up, over underpasses of forsythia root highways

Palisades of broken twigs, earthen ramps, and low pebble walls

Stone bridges over garden hose trickle

Construction sites alive with loaders and dump trucks mining scree

Afternoons when we all were much less fickle