There were wild things growing in my backyard, and they were red, and green, and patched with color.
Winter kept me at a distance, so I almost forgot they were there until last night when they called to me in my bed, so I would remember.
The next morning I pulled up a chair,
I waited for the wild things to speak and I tried desperately to listen (and also not to stare).
I stole a few glances and felt sticky, and wild; crawling and buzzing, and neon green among brown slugs that endured brown and burnished pistils that lingered as downward duds.
I heard a voice whisper, “Welcome,” so I walked in where there was a way.
I stood in the thick of blown cotton, chipped butterflies and winged fairies, feeling completely at home with one yellow tennis ball, two seashells, a giant Jeffrey pine cone lugged from Lake Arrowhead, the flower box I cut and nailed together (when I fancied myself a carpenter,) and the thrift store mouse under his impervious beige mushroom.
“You’re not so wild,” I said to the wild things, “You’re simply my old home.”
(Note: It was almost criminal to whack these weeds down! They were the closest kin I had to flowers.)