A morning stroll in my neighborhood

I was noticing
the rows, the order,
pretty enough…
splashes of
purple and pink
and blue and red
and yellow…
but the order
made me dizzy!

My mind
tried to smear,
to blur,
to mix them
but not in
rank and file.

Yet her furious
digging and stabbing
at everything that was
“not order”

distracted me,
clods flying
as if from between
a gopher’s brown legs!

Her mouth
grim as Patton’s
as he intently
urged Rommel
to the grinder,
she stalked
and tracked weeds,
rocks and sticks.

I scurried by
with my head low
and eyes straight,
lest she start
on me next!

Around the corner
I was back
to my yard,
a sprawl of
Western Oregon tangle
and blackberries,
wild strawberries
and everywhere
ferns ferns

The tweeties
flit and dart,
the robins rule
with bright wakefulness
and the stray cats
wallow in daubles and
puddles of warm
golden light
(seemingly somnambulant
but staring steely
thru slitted eyes)…

and beds here,
tousled and frumpy made,
and beds there,
letting any rooted thing declare
if it be flower or weed
(this bed knew
that “weed”
was a label made
by “Dictator Order”)

and tall oaks
gathered round
the fire ring
to watch their
cast-offs become
the wine and bread
of many a bonfire.

I know
she hates my yard.
She tries to
shame with sarcasm
and damn
with faint praise.

I get it…I do.
She gets unsettled
when control frays.

But I love it.
It comforts me
in its balance,
in its flavour

and in its eversong of liberty.


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