failed lawn
susan smith nash
gives
me a border to cross,
a
little crust of death to encircle the green --
omnipresent
even in the best of times,
despite
rain, cool dawns, and all those gentle cliché’s,
like
me, in that little part of my heart,
with
breathlessness, haste, and greening fields,
where
I, too, refuse to grow or thrive.
Without
you,
the
ordinary hedgerows around my heart
have
become more prickly, dry, yet inebriate
with
rage and soulful arts
and
from that weird paradox
my
house looms high,
stone
walls dusty, scaled by ivy,
the
vaulted windows steamed over
with
breath from long ago
at
night, my neighbors see faces
or
hands pressed up against the glass;
it
is a reflection of my various moats
or
narratives spun, tales in the making –
of
armies of gardeners who stand and frown,
knee-deep
in lilies, gladiolus, and green
waging
war with that intractable brown,
the
fringe I nurture and neglect
a
blossomless future
a
brittle past
I,
proudly drawing myself up,
refusing,
finally, to thrive.
(May 6, 2001)