The Bone Yard Poem by Thomas Plotz

The Bone Yard beckons, my return
Dirt, it's hard to find here, although it's fine;
Scrub-grass, sage-brush and cactus, love's the sand with
High Hills

I'm not sure they still own that area?
Over by J,
With the way, the orange chair glows
With the setting sun

I still imagine, you sitting with your legs up
Feet pressed together,
Just listening to the wind, and waiting for the last of the days light,
To sink past the horizon, then out of sight

It wasn't the first time I saw someone rake rocks -
Into a delightful pattern, then tending to the potted garden,
First time, was in Japan; but this was the first time,
Here with you; at you home in the hills,

Where the orange chair would glow, with the setting sun

T. Plotz
The Bone Yard
5 January 2018