The grass will grow for sure.
Three days before the first day of Spring,
the first real rain falls
after two days of preternatural heat.
Drinking coffee, I can hear your voice,
the way you used to tell me
You know you'll have to mow soon.
You used to be so excited about it.
Then again, grass grows different in memory
than it does on a three-quarter acre corner lot.
Over on Pumpkin Hill, the roof doesn't leak anymore, either;
no more dance to set the mop bucket
and empty coffee cans just right.
Old house, old house problems
I would say.
Drinking the last of the morning coffee,
I wonder what it must be like
to feel the groan of the Earth under foot,
the way an old crone groans
remembering her last moment of ecstasy,
that moment of thunder and cloud break.
Do all men mistake that moan for interest?
Spring planting is all cow shit
and bad porn metaphors, anyway.
Nostalgia and bad commercialism
designed to make urban shoppers feel better
about not knowing where the plastic wrapped food
If the Earth is a woman, then we really are
beyond all redemption.