Endless Lawn XII

Endless Lawn XII

How can I make this poem

resemble those lawns

-you know the ones-

with the stripes

that go this way,

?taht neht dna

Such beauty eludes me

when I mow.

My grass is lucky

to get cut at all.

Then I think,

maybe I should try

to convey the emotions

that wash over one

while one pushes,

pulls, and otherwise labors

with the machine.

I am one

who worships the green space.

I am one

who rejoices in the growing throngs.

So why must I,

an acolyte of the eternal,

seething, virile will

of our forests,

dutifully clip

and preen and make war

on this garden?

This is my conundrum.

And this is my muse.

Pray that your muse

tortures you

and sustains you

in the same way.

T. Evans, September 2021