VOICES FROM THE YARD
VOICES FROM THE YARD
The twelve rung-ladder nailed to my tree
was removed for some child’s safety.
At least the queen bee loved me.
Her workers built a hive that started small
then grew to five feet by five feet, heavy
with honey, but somebody came with smoke
filled me full and took it all away.
My walls stopped humming.
They tried to relocate queenie to a wee box
on the ground, but she would have none of it.
What lives up here in me now is my secret,
but I’ve begun to rot and that’s not pleasing me.
I don’t wish to obfuscate the situation
with my whines and opinions except I feel
abandoned and now the playhouse
has something to say, too, but her voice
is as weak as her squirrel, mice and hornet
infested walls. She whispers and I hear
even though I’m up high, she—down low
we abide side-by-side living differently
yet deteriorating simultaneously.
For twenty years no one has bothered
to maintain our original glory.
We were built with pride by a man
who enjoyed working with his hands
making things for his two children,
outside in the big world behind the house.
I used to be rustic and sturdy
and little mini was cutie with painted
white sides and a brown shingled roof,
light lilac interior and flower wallpaper
accents. So sweet. We even had electricity.
She had lights and a ceiling fan.
Now her roof sags, walls have holes.
Good god she looks old.
Why do people build, create then cease
to care for what they propagate properly?
We, the orphans on this property, soon to die
say thanks for nothing and goodbye.
