April 28: Lawns, Molly Peacock, "Cutting Tall Grass"

I dislike my lawn.  If I could afford to cement my front and back yards and paint them green, I would.  That way, all I would have to do to clean my lawn is drag out the hose and wash it down.  I do nothing to cultivate lush grass.  Yet, for some reason, my lawn always seems to thrive.  And it pisses me off.

I have killed much vegetation in my life.  The pumpkin patch I planted one year yielded only one, cherry-tomato-sized squash.  Last summer, I over-watered several ferns at my friend's house and turned them into tumbleweeds.  Easter lilies might as well stay in the tomb under my watch, and poinsettias never see Santa Claus.

No part of Saint Marty's anatomy is green.

Cutting Tall Grass

by:  Molly Peacock

I love the sound of lawnmowers each year.
There's a woman in her workpants smelling of
gasoline and cut grass, wiping a smear
of grease on her head while blotting a swelling of
sweat from her head under her plastic visor.
I'm not sure whether she loves that machine.
Short grass is none the wiser for the razor,
so the love of mowing it is love of sheen.
But one must love the vehicle, the sun,
the bugs thrown up behind and the swallows
snatching bugs at the wheels to love a lawn,
the old grass spewn in the bleak shadows,
the new grass smelling of wet and slight rot,
to love to live between what is and is not.

My idea of a healthy lawn