Mirage

We let the vines grow wild
beyond the back door;

but in time, even the front
was hard to keep free

of overgrowth. We propped
old rowboats against

the falling-down garage;
broken oars lined

the garden beds. Grass grew
impartially around the space

we once called home. Sometimes
in dreams I brush aside

a curtain of green and step
into a clearing, blinking.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Complementarity.

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