Just Grass

When the birds are gone, what's left?

JUST GRASS
22/07/2003


The backyard’s just a plot of grass
Where verdant threads weave tapestries
And blades, like green threads, stitch en masse,
a sod design of symmetries.

The sky above, a patchwork quilt
Of scrambled clouds the sun plays in
Where fences roam what Season's spilt
And mornings over mountains, chin.

Until the storm of feathers tear
With lightning through the buffalo bur
With glossy hues that brush the air
For daubers’ eyes whose paints does stir.

Now thunder sounds in sweet duets
While laughing birds the sound waves split
As rooftop fills with shrill quartets
And branches hum where chirpers sit.

Then, Nature, a kaleidoscope,
Churns hues and pitches, back and forth
‘Til sight and sound do interlope
from green lawn’s south to backyard’s north.

Soon the ground grows still again.
The birds leave. Morning makes its pass;
Removes its chin from peaks, and then
The backyard’s just a plot of grass.