the yard

in the mud
on your knees
kneading the warm
earth.
the tangle
of vines,
and leaves,
the scramble
of rocks and scrub
brush.
trying to bring
a few flowers up.
all of it out
of your control.
the yard
is yours, but
it's not yours.
it seems
to decide what
comes and goes,
lives and dies.
not unlike
so much else
in your life.