John Richard Heath

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.

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