The Empty Lot

i

Between my aunt’s house and the backs
of those with their low roofs
on the next block
lay an empty lot.

The summer weeds were tall enough
(in fall, the goldenrod)
to close us off.
The field seemed boundless –

neutral ground – almost a barrier.
No-one but I chose
to enter that space.
It was my empire.

ii

To stand waist-high
in the surf of weeds,
bare feet and dusty toes
a hilly terrain for ants,
heels burrowed by chiggers,
legs scratched by dry stalks
and burrs, bitten by ticks,
the sun burning my shoulders
and small flies circling my head
as I dragged the back of a hand
across brow and under chin
to wipe away the sweat:
prelapsarian bliss.

iii

Even in winter, when cold scythed
all growth flat, a tangle
of rotted leaves, shattered stems
and muddy snow

kept us isolated
in our small house
on that unpaved street
at the edge of town.

And after school, until
the grown-ups got home
from work, there was only
my brother to talk to.

We were strangers — in wartime — 
with nowhere else to live — and few 
neighbours so far from the centre.
How lucky I was.