Not that it was the only item of worth and beauty in that little corner yard. There were irises in deep, velvety shades of purple. And poppies, tall and gangly and somehow regal. Later in the year, there were stands of daisies and black-eyed Susans and even corn to admire. And tall, graceful sunflowers with their ungainly heads too big for their bodies. All in all, a truly satisfying suburban backyard.

I looked forward, every spring, to observing as it took shape. The transformation, from brown and dreary to colorful and creative, was inspiring. And revealing. Peering over the little chain link fence and into their world gave me a feeling of kinship, a sense of camaraderie.

But then, early last spring, before the first tulips had bloomed, before the bright yellow daffodils appeared like magic from the still-cold and barren ground, I saw the telltale wooden fence posts. Six feet high they were, at regular intervals, blockish and at odds with the crooked angles of the morning-glory teepee. It was a bad sign, but one I'd come to know well. It was only a matter of time. Sure enough, less than a week later the little yard was gone, enclosed all around with the standard-issue, impenetrable privacy fence.

I felt strangely cut off, as though I were being punished for my wandering eye. And I felt just the slightest bit guilty. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so greedy in my appreciation. Perhaps if we all hadn't taken just one peek, there would be something left. For surely I'm not the only suburban voyeur left, not the only one who still enjoys a satisfying look into another's yard. Were there too many of us who gawked? Did we invade their privacy with our swiveled-head stares and our probing glances? In taking what we needed, did we steal something?

I found that I missed the garden, now hidden behind its thick wooden barrier. I caught myself wondering if the lilacs had bloomed this year. I worried about how the fragile poppies were faring in the strong winds. And if the sunflowers had survived the big hail. And I wondered which shade of morning glories were gracing the teepee.

I missed my morning fix of color, of peace. And I realized that I had needed the sense of community that the yard had given me. Because now, surrounded on all sides by 6-foot-high privacy fences, that sense of belonging seems sorely lacking in my little pocket of suburbia.

So, unable to recapture the glory of our neighbor's yard, my husband and I did the next best thing. We tore down our own back fence, opening up our small yard to the culvert (affectionately dubbed "the creek"), behind us.

No, we don't have a morning-glory teepee (yet). But we do have a garden and plenty of wild poppies and irises. And the sunflowers went in last week. Perhaps our little suburban backyard will brighten someone's day as they walk along the creek. Perhaps they will look up the slope, peer into our plain, everyday lives and see ... well, whatever it is that they need to see.

Kelly Kyrik writes full time from her house in suburban Aurora, which overlooks her semi-fenced yard.