We haven’t gotten into winter yet,
but the leaves from the trees and bushes
have gone, and some from the hedges, too,
and, with them, the illusion of property.
When I step outside, I can see the land
flowing down toward the rivers,
and those little barriers we planted to say
"this is ours and not yours" have disappeared.
 
Those embarrassments we’ve tried to hide
about ourselves reveal themselves, too.
My weedy garden behind the garage.
My neighbor’s car up on blocks
and rusted through, too far gone
for the repair job he promised his daughter.
Down the street a weight bench set up
behind the house is covered in rotting leaves.
This is who we are.

Or it is, at least, some of it.
We are also what we show the world:
pumpkins inviting children and friends,
candles in windows, and the reflected light
from a family eating dinner inside.
We are even the potted amaryllis my mother
placed on her porch because she knew
her cousins were coming later that evening,
and she hadn’t seen them for years.


© by John Brantingham.
Used here with the author’s permission.