I was so relieved this morning when I woke up to look out my window and saw that the new gardener had mown the lawn yesterday. Didn’t even know I felt this way until it was mown.
Blades of Grass
I never cared much for gardening
though it can be a healing place
where ornamental pears will grow a brick a week
as they did years ago after my brothers death.
Promising growth and, unlike life, never letting me down.
But how I wish the grass would now.
Let me down. Stop growing. Keep me up.
With every inch I watch it reach and ache and long for him.
Stretching toward his heaven. Without a voice it’s still so loud.
‘Come tend me. My gardener. You neglect.’
It’s wild and angry. Messy and lost. I hate it for that.
How right it is.
How it mirrors my state and mocks my strength.
I despise the grass growing.
Fundamentally set for sadness, that seems.
Every length off the soil, wounding my heart.
The blades that cut are everywhere.
Thank fucking god the gardener came yesterday.