There’s a rusty chair left over
from your grandparents in law, 
one the squirrels haven’t yet
torn to shreds.

Pull it from the corner of the yard
and right to the center,
the pollen crunching
under your feet.

There’s a neighbor behind you,
his garage door open. 
Music is playing. Something is 
being fixed or installed.

Push that from your focus,
and avoid being annoyed
by his perpetual busy
suburban nesting.

There’s a deck before you,
decades old, creaking & buckled
from rain & sun,
boards warped & bleached,
nails reaching upward. 
Some slats mossed over
fold beneath the lightest
of footsteps.

Give thanks for the long years
this space has given you, 
and avoid being annoyed
at this crumbling hazard.

There’s a vista before you,
a roof that’s never leaked,
a tree above it, right at the center 
of this part of your life.

Cross your legs. Palm the glass
of wine. Watch for mosquitos.
And look up.  

There are clouds & birds,
branches & wind.

It’s all starting again.
It always will. 

_{Written in response to this challenge.}