A Weedy Provocation
sudden hatred of my
pasture like lawn
the phone book
provided landscapers.
I chose Movellisi
I loved the ring of the
old Italian style namesake.

With baby tractors and skidrows
They would tear out pasture grass
Sandburs and goathead stickers
Replace it with astroturf
oil plastered down with tar.
Green asphalt

Sending more teenagers to Iraq
more oil spilling into the Gulf.
crabapples wondered as they would tumble,
confused onto rubber mats
their withering raisin eyes
grimacing from my window perch
leaves brushing them whispering of real blades.
I imagined I would covertly
dash out at full moon
the slick green blades
Free of soil, seed, and leaf.
I felt traitor to Mother Earth
depriving my haven of oxygen
myself of siestas in the sun on sod.

She tears up as I stare at
Cirrus sky
wondering how the snow would survive.
I hung up the phone
Just as Movellisi answered:

I swear outside
I heard a collective, barely

One comment

  1. I thought I was alone with the overgrazed little patch of, well, nothing. You have given me hope, or companionship. I’m expecting too much of each rain drop I know. It’s awful to admit but I feel better after reading your experience.

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