A Change in Chaos

The sound of a vacant baseball diamond
and bleachers that have been emptied out
is not the cavernous sound of desolate city,
but more like a farm without animals
and no chores to be done. The quiet barn.

Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.

In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--

that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.

Beyond the white chalk lines
of perfect angles and perfect geometry
I see a vine that fights and twists against gravity
it claws its way up a tree to follow the sun.

This is (the above poem) the third draft of this poem.





Beyond the playing field there's a woodline,
not far at all; a grasshopper
might get there in three jumps,
with no dreams of grand schemes
just an exoskeleton and something
that might be called instincts.

In the foreground of my sight
I imagine young athletes aiming
to please their parents
or perhaps please the referees,
those poor prophets,
or maybe even to prove and please themselves
and my eyes are pulled to that most indiscriminate
of backgrounds, the woodline--

that hard line between
a man's lawn mower and the wild,
that boundary between backhoe and background,
between backdoor and backwoods,
where order and order meet.

Beyond the white painted line
all at right angles  and perfect arcs,
I see a vine that fights gravity
and follows the sun.


Originally drafted on 12/24/2015 with moderate edits made here particularly in the second and third stanzas.