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This is a peace with many opportunities
to claim it: how they pop up like daisies on
the mown lawn after a couple of days -
in the name of fresh life; and they will flourish
among the genuine blades, tares among the wheat,
while the lawn mower waits in the shade: all
it takes is a trigger to start its racket
that's quite un-poetic, but which the caring
handler deploys to such ruthless ends, as even
cuts the grass, the comfortable green it's grown
into, swaying in the miscellany
of all those misbegotten herbs, of seed-pods
that have taken and claimed a space and fortune;
but when the mower does its business, evenly,
it is only the grass remains: the rest is dross. |
