Garden

The back door closes and the world inside

Fades away

I step down the wooden stairs

That I built

And stand

Eyes closed

Breathing in the wet air

Filling my head with leaves and soil

My ears with crows and mockingbirds and somewhere someone’s dog

Barks

My garden is modest

But it is mine

I rub my fingers over the sweet basil leaves

brush through the slender chives

Inspect the seedlings in their planter cups

And for those moments

The morning is good.