A morning like this
when there is
a benediction
in the blue sky.
Every muscle of
grass stretching,
unmown, like my
own hair uncut for
months, further than
they’ve ever known.
This new lease of life,
these days they never
knew they’d know. From
the brittle depths of
their clay roots they
see their green blades
pierce the stretched
blue above.
I will not
punctuate the garden’s
sentences today with
a shears or a hoe but
but let it write its own
mythologies with dandelion
arms that rip through the
asphalt.
Centuries of patience
before completing the ritual.
Who am I to ask for more?
Moored in this morning,
for a moment I know, that
enough
is often
way more than