Ode to Stubble
Ahh, sweet victory,
to sweep away
the grass clippings,
the lawn is fresh
and smooth
with vapored dew.
But as morning
sighs away the
afternoon,
your hands
brush against
the jagged
velcro,
the grass blades
that spike into spring,
incapable of submission.
Again must I bring
blade upon blade
and reap ribbons
from roots,
a vicious cycle
of agriculture,
where abundance
is a bane.
Fortunate
are the barren
fields that
keep clear of
crops.