I walk across 

on the sunny patio, again.

The gnarled edgings have

given dandelions

and thistles. There is

no sign of a lawn

but a look alike

crumpled carpet, green

beneath the swings where

the winter past

has been singing

its tingling, chilly melodies.

The painting rollers,

the broken bricks,

the wheelbarrow

remaining;

the climbing little vineyard

dry and forgotten

beyond any obligation,

free of any duties.

The lonely driveway,

ravaged by the purity

of salt, burning it,

underneath the steps.

The glory of Spring

is here, once more,

even though accosted

by a loveless sadness;

even when the fence

has given way

and fallen,

together with some

of the lanterns.

But those against the trellis

still remain, who

knows for what the use.

You see, such were the storms

that cleaved

unto the many days

in the history of the houses,

and the deserted,

clean streets of Ozone Park.

In the end. . .

God only knows

what imagined pains

they thought for the broken

ages of the earth,

that so inadvertently came.