the square yard

I see no hope
for the back yard.
the stack of ladders,
the old fire place made
of metal,
the rattle of the wood
on the limp
shed.
a weber grill
that's seen better days.
look at how the vines
have
creeped
into the fence, climbed
with fast fingers,
green
upon the brick.
where's it going?
the bushes are scarce,
and stiff,
the ground cover a mix
of gravel and weeds.
it's a pleasant place perhaps
for birds,
for snakes, for passing
animals
looking for shelter,
but not for me.