09-25-2015, 02:48 AM
Who Cuts the Grass in the Woods
I wanted these old bottles
turned with their barcodes where I couldn't see them,
but whichever way I turned them
I could see one from another part of the room.
People told me the only thing was to throw them away.
So I went in the woods with a bucket
and a stick,
knocking spiderwebs from between the trees.
Trails had grown over since I was young.
Those things that float
and look like pieces of fuzz
swarmed inanimately
but for their drifting
and caused no harm.
My stick was shaped like a sickle
for it had been broken that way,
and as I waded through my many
neighbors' garbage
brushing web debris off my arms,
avoiding snakes and the threat
of people's voices,
the woods were like a stranger's house
where once you were greeted
by something other.
I dug and mislaid dirt,
like Yahweh with his clay figures,
and I didn't bring my bottles.
Found a downed tree
and pulled some dirt from under it.
I took trips back and forth
out of the woods,
taking nothing and leaving nothing noticeable
behind. Though
once nearly (crushing I thought) stepping
on a mushroom that turned out to be a rubberball.
Returning to my plastic bucket
beside the tree and
filling it up with almost more than I could
carry,
walking back, a snagging treelimb nearly
ripped out one of my eyes.
Dirt stayed clear on my hand
when I wiped my brow and squinched,
plucking a pumpkin seed shaped spider
off my collar.
Wondering, childishly, once again
(like I used to where the ducks go
from the little ponds by the road
in the winter),
who cuts the grass in the woods:
But recall,
praising lapses in memory,
I figured a while ago
that winter makes its own
beginnings with muddy fingers.
And besides it being summer,
take for granted
that there has been some rain lately.
I wanted these old bottles
turned with their barcodes where I couldn't see them,
but whichever way I turned them
I could see one from another part of the room.
People told me the only thing was to throw them away.
So I went in the woods with a bucket
and a stick,
knocking spiderwebs from between the trees.
Trails had grown over since I was young.
Those things that float
and look like pieces of fuzz
swarmed inanimately
but for their drifting
and caused no harm.
My stick was shaped like a sickle
for it had been broken that way,
and as I waded through my many
neighbors' garbage
brushing web debris off my arms,
avoiding snakes and the threat
of people's voices,
the woods were like a stranger's house
where once you were greeted
by something other.
I dug and mislaid dirt,
like Yahweh with his clay figures,
and I didn't bring my bottles.
Found a downed tree
and pulled some dirt from under it.
I took trips back and forth
out of the woods,
taking nothing and leaving nothing noticeable
behind. Though
once nearly (crushing I thought) stepping
on a mushroom that turned out to be a rubberball.
Returning to my plastic bucket
beside the tree and
filling it up with almost more than I could
carry,
walking back, a snagging treelimb nearly
ripped out one of my eyes.
Dirt stayed clear on my hand
when I wiped my brow and squinched,
plucking a pumpkin seed shaped spider
off my collar.
Wondering, childishly, once again
(like I used to where the ducks go
from the little ponds by the road
in the winter),
who cuts the grass in the woods:
But recall,
praising lapses in memory,
I figured a while ago
that winter makes its own
beginnings with muddy fingers.
And besides it being summer,
take for granted
that there has been some rain lately.
