She's our neighbor, a quite fussy one.
She cuts her grass twice a week,
scarcely giving the blades chance to grow,
and it is the trimmest yard on the block,
standing out among the other yards; a near painting
frozen in a colorful time.
We call her teasingly the 'grass lady'. She has no idea, of course.
Sometimes I'm compelled to ask her to cut my lawn,
since she enjoys this act of cutting so much,
enjoys keeping the grass like a carpet that breathes and has breath,
But, I must say, I often wonder who will cut her grass when she's gone?
When her body loses its war, who will examine her terrific yard?
Who will keep it perfect, who will care to groom it
like a head of green hair? I often wonder as I watch her
behind the roaring lawnmower. When the world passes away,
grass, trees, rosebushes, us; will she wish she'd hugged her kids more,
cut less grass, and cut more frequently through the social ills
that steal kids, like shoplifters of the innocent?
Such a gorgeous lawn she has.
Quite manicured and near perfect, I'd say.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.