A walk through my parents yard,
the grass where I played.
Childhood memories abound in a rush,
a flood of emotion.
The dirt spot where bats were swung,
the soft indentation where the weeping willow fell.
The old shed, once over there, now over here.
The land I learned to trim with mechanical blades.
Hills where my son now plays.
The backyard is more than just a plain of green,
a space where family convenes.
Memories created, memories never forgotten.
Remember when grandpa held my hand and walked with me.
The backyard is a space common to many, unique to each.
An escape from daily tribulations,
an oasis clustered in suburbia.
The backyard is but a dream.
Backyard, oh backyard.