Growing up in the suburbs
a backyard was just part of the residential package.
Ours, like most of our neighbors’,
was a well-manicured, chemically-treated extension of the house
          rather than its own entity.
My father had conquered the yard —
          grass always trim, deck freshly stained, pool perfectly PH balanced
Returning to the suburbs as an adult
some combination of lack of skill and lack of shits to give
          left my backyard ever-wild.
I planted, I weeded (with heavy reliance on a plant ID app), I trimmed
But it was never enough to stop the creep
of the yard’s own intentions.
Completely foreign flora was two-feet high seemingly overnight,
unnamed greenery sprouted in the raised garden beds supposedly stocked solely with
          carefully chosen seeds;
it didn’t take long for me to cede it all
to the elements.
By my fourth summer
I had surrendered so much
the back yard became an escape,
          and I let it speak to my lost self.
Maybe I was never meant to control it
Maybe the wildness was the invitation.

6/11/26