A Lament

[Lizzie]

Edit 1

I grieve for the shorn-short grasses
       that wanted to seed,
       and for the dandelions
       that won't witness
       their hair turning white.
       Life presses and pressures
       them up toward the blades.
       Every month or so, we make the choice:
       to neuter the grass.

I grieve for the thistles, the clover, the saplings
       whose cycle is again rebuffed.
       They would have provided
       shade and shelter
       from my curious children
       and other predators.
       Every month or so we make the choice:
       the land will remain barren.

I grieve for the tree-dwelling caterpillar,
       with yellow and orange tiger stripes
       and gentle porcupine spines.
       My children ecstatically worshiped it,
       then dropped and crushed it underneath
       pudgy-pink, innocent feet –
       its life as short as their attention spans.

I grieve for the red shed next door,
       decomposing on foreclosed property.
       A fallen gutter, a broken window –
       time is pressing down on it,
       pressuring it into the dirt.
       Moss has overtaken its roof;
       the earth owns its title.

I grieve for the fallen orange Popsicle
       diminishing in the shredded grass
       like decay captured in time-lapse film.
       We wash it with the garden hose,
       eroding its purpose like chalk-soft rock,
       while my hungry 2-year-old melts into tears.

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Original version (titled "A Lament")

I grieve for the shorn-short grass
       that wanted to seed,
       and for the dandelions
       that won't witness
       their hair turning white.
       I grieve for the nature pressing, pressuring,
       whose cycle is again rebuffed.
       I grieve for the thistles, the clover,
       the yellow flowers, the mushrooms
       that would have grown,
       provided habitat and food,
       shade and shelter –
       for rabbits, fawns, snakes, spiders –
       from my curious children
       and other predators.
       Every month or so, we make this same choice:
       to neuter the grass.

I grieve for the tree-dwelling caterpillar,
       with yellow and orange tiger stripes
       and gentle porcupine spines.
       My children explosively worshiped it,
       then dropped and crushed it underneath
       unknowing and innocent feet.
       Its life was as short as their attention spans.

I grieve for the red shed next door,
       decomposing on foreclosed property.
       A fallen gutter, a broken window –
       time is always pressing down on it,
       pressuring it into the dirt.
       Moss has overtaken its roof;
       the earth owns it now.

I grieve for the orange-fallen Popsicle
       diminishing in the shredded grass
       like decay captured in time-lapse film.
       We wash it with the green garden hose,
       eroding it like chalk-soft rock, while my
       2-year-old melts into red-faced tears.