suburban afternoon

behind these houses a small stand of pine
we fake the wilderness that we destroy
there are so many tricks that we employ
to make our false depictions really shine
others might see these marks as of decline
but we believe that naught we do will cloy
the normal heart what we produce is joy
and nothing you say can that undermine
elsewhere mosaics of dead golden leaves
mark out the winter the world does not ail
as long as nature plays out her old rôle
but calm's a means by which the false deceives
and we cannot know what it might entail
since none of us can truly read the scroll