The Back of my Garden

The Back of my Garden
Christopher Bogart

I have retired now to the back of my garden
to view my life from its furthest point.

Everything I have ever worked for
is arrayed before my eyes.

The yard, planted in beautiful bowers of
roses, hydrangea and mountain laurel.
Pots of petunias in shades of pink, and purple and white
delight the eye, from their outposts on the corners of the deck.

English ivy creeps up the ancient swamp maple,
as if in a race to trace its bark with green leaves
to wave to the will of gentle breezes.

My house, centenarian in shades of cream and brown,
looms up before me like a sleeping monolith, a
monument to the productivity of labors past, past industry.

I stand on the ground of my achievements.

I have retired now to the back of my garden,
and my life, at its furthest point,
Far beyond the boundaries of the property line
has become to me a challenge
in a world of new dreams,
new fields of future endeavor that trace
new and unknown boundary lines
and new security beyond the place
I once called home.