There was no plan, there were pickets
leaning on the pool house;
and bordering the lawn, leaves
dense with the smell of working worms.
I put those things together,
didn't consider pending vines on my
pilgrimages to the compost heap,
satisfied to find the fence in snow,
and so stop throwing decayed food like
bilge into the open sea of the garden.
I wanted no confusion in the future,
having hallucinated half of childhood.
Some runaway boy packing pajamas
landed on the neighbor's concrete stoop,
stopped between home and farther.
Now, older and not home,
I wonder where the morning glories grow
but can't look too far into it -
such gifts may find and wreathe me
grieving the short-lived trumpets of dreams.