The Yard
When I was young
no more than twelve,
the grass was more than green.
A battlefield where blood was shed,
broken arms and broken legs.
Forts built of fishing cane walls,
lands invaded by crossing pine straw borders.
Punches thrown, tears spilled
friendships ended, but just for one day.
When I was a boy
the yard was special.
A land to call our own.
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