01-25-2015, 06:27 AM
My windows look into a sea-green wave
of trees, arrested by a close-cut lawn.
The neighbour’s vine escaped, and formed a cave
the gardeners have been chopping at since dawn.
Once prisoned there, the locquat stands undressed
and shrugs her rounded shoulders in the breeze
which plays along the mirror plants, the guest
of summer’s naked gaiety, at ease.
Such jungle-like profusion, cut away
makes three whole loads, along with trim and weeds,
reminds me how, on end-of-winter days
bikini-line attention intercedes;
we scrape or shave or wax or do all three -
because we’re frightened of maturity?
of trees, arrested by a close-cut lawn.
The neighbour’s vine escaped, and formed a cave
the gardeners have been chopping at since dawn.
Once prisoned there, the locquat stands undressed
and shrugs her rounded shoulders in the breeze
which plays along the mirror plants, the guest
of summer’s naked gaiety, at ease.
Such jungle-like profusion, cut away
makes three whole loads, along with trim and weeds,
reminds me how, on end-of-winter days
bikini-line attention intercedes;
we scrape or shave or wax or do all three -
because we’re frightened of maturity?