Patio Pavers by Dan Behrens More cinder than stone, Four dozen patio pavers Lay behind our tool shed, Misplaced, abandoned, Exposed and melting away Under the long linger of rain— This heap of garden bricks That once hedged off roses, Retained a lofted green bed, Perhaps encircled a school of Koi Or encamped evening fires For a family who lived here. Now unearthed, I scrape, wash, and stack These moss-coated slabs Erect as an Incan altar Beside our broken gate, Like something conjured Out of the womb of earth, A small tower of fidelity I’ll later use to reset The sagging porch, A near nod to whomever Kept this yard before me— Her hands. His dirt. Their Eden. This evening, I’ll cut the grass, Gathering Lilac clippings, Toss some fertilizer And set upon these neglected stones To help us turn the corner, To hear again the ancient utterance Of new birth, the miraculous Marriage of symmetry and chaos, Like Babel's tower in her infancy Before the scattering and the falling apart, Before our creative language severed, Our sacred union wedged To the far reaches of earth.