Bicycling through the forest is beautiful

trains used to run under the trees when I was a boy

that wasn’t that long ago

the river runs for miles

near the trail

where I grew up

winding next to the wilderness

becoming less wild, every year.

Reaching the highway

the sun is hot

protesters hold signs

and

cars honk, as I race home

The wind is blowing

through the golf course now

scents of fairways, cigars, leather gloves, and pine needles

fill my memories

I can even smell the sand in the traps

lavender bushes

and the muddy stink of the river I call my own

I cross the bridge I’ve crossed thousands of times

to the only home I will ever know

telephone wires leave their outlines on the pavement

as I coast my bicycle

down my driveway

under the big oak tree

where the garden isn’t there anymore

and strangers stare at me

because the house isn’t my home.

5 thoughts on “The Garden isn’t there Anymore

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