The lawn is no more but the garden is glorious
Glory of the garden, here in the Mid-Atlantic states. Count among your blessings: chickweed, crabgrass, deadnettle, nimblewill, nutsedge, purslane, spurge, mallow and yarrow. Spores burst, constellations spawn. Facedown in the ex-lawn, pressed to the fecund ground, I follow the spoor, filaments of weed tickling my nostrils: fusty, musty, semen-scented. Ants trickle over my fingers. Just out of eyeshot the long, low, lolloping cat drags her belly through the sward, glares, yellow eyes boring into mine. In response, the chiff-chaff of cardinals and chickadees ascends a pitch.
Over the tall fence
Kids chafe, meat chars, the chat is
Sappy, smug—stifling.
© John Heath
John Richard Heath was born in England and teaches at American University in Washington, DC.
The Loch Raven Review 