Behind the House

I don’t know the names of any of these flowers 
Nor do I know their means of generation. 
I could not name for sure a single bird 
Or tell what kind of tree they’re singing in. 
I see the ants, but don’t know what they do. 
I don’t know what to call these armored bugs 
Or whether they are good or bad for plants. 
I cannot guess what wood makes up this fence 
Or say it was the proper choice or not, 
Though I can see it’s slowly falling down, 
Pushed by the thriving weeds along its base. 
In short, I know nothing about this yard, 
And least of all can I imagine how 
The silver rocking horse with the blue blaze 
Lost his springs and braces, his base and bars, 
Shed his reins and rockers, and came to be 
Stuck by his belly on this rotting fence, 
Ridden only by spiders and by stars.