At The End Of The Garden

To start with breakfast
and the waking birds
that listen to muttered,
inane, and fading

Let the dew know
its purpose and greet
stranded green
again and again

A hoarse cry across
the way gives hanging
blossom an urge to fall
but it merely rolls eyes

Hidden to a gaping door
and bulging with weeds
the light makes a play;
a firing pistol to recede

Fenced away, these baubles
babble and clang.
I dine to new days
at the end of this garden.

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