Boundaries

The garden, edged with wire,
a jaunty scarecrow, a bit of coyote
urine, hair shavings from a buzz cut.

Don’t call me, text me.
stop with the emojis, no more
cute animal videos. 

I’m at the edge of nowhere,
on edge, waiting for silence,
flicker of senses, a sense of roots

growing underneath my feet,
threatening to expose themselves,
wrap around my ankles.

I’m afraid you will show up
with the kitchen shears
or a basket filled with bees

I’ve set a boundary to protect
the baby lettuce, a chance to grow 
without withering or sunstroke–

fieldstone, sandstone, slate or granite
dragged into place, balanced
like a conversation resting on a sinkhole.

Christine B