I see my father, a trowel in hand,
Building a low wall with brick after brick and
Mortar he laid in a herringbone wedge.
He made a patio in the back yard
With a wall interrupted by steps that
He built with bricks framed by flower boxes
In which they planted geraniums
With marigolds bushy along the wall,
And a long path of bricks alternating
With steps up our back yard past the locust
Tree, enormous to me. It menaced the
House that my parents bought when I was six.
What I remember now is how it looked
When last I saw it nearly twenty years ago.
The cement had cracked and the bricks crumbled.
The earth having slowly
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