On Not Mowing the Lawn
From her book of poems,
Let the grass spring up tall, let its roots sing
And the seeds begin their scattering.
Let the weeds rejoin and be prolific throughout.
Let the noise of the mower be banished, hurrah!
Let the path become where I choose to walk, and not otherwise established.
Let the goldfinches be furnished their humble dinner.
Let the sparrows determine their homes in security.
Let the honeysuckle reach as high as my window, that it may look in.
Let the mice fill their barns with a sufficiency.
Let anything created,
that wants to creep or leap forward, be able to do so.
Let the grasshopper have gliding space.
Let the noise of the mower be banished, yes, yes.
Let the katydid return and announce himself in the long evenings.
Let the blades of grass surge back from the last cutting.