My Rite of Spring
I consider myself a peaceable soul.
I value all manner of livable things.
Insects and mice, spiders and voles.
Just about anything Mom Nature brings.
But I do have my standards.
I will draw the line.
I have to set limits
someday and sometime.
Weeds in the yard — a depressing concern.
I sigh to myself. Oh, when will they learn?
Perhaps we can work out a reasonable deal
that will keep you in place but give my lawn appeal.
So I try very hard, really I do.
To come up with something honest and true:
“You can grow all you want if you keep in your space.
A nice grassy green puts a smile on my face.
But the rule you can’t break if you want to stay safe
is you can’t reproduce and remain in this place.
Let me say this again
and not as a friend:
You may stay where you lie,
but if you flower you die.”
I’ve told my yard this every year after year.
But no one is ever listening, I fear.
So I give a big groan as I get out my sprayer,
my gloves and my clippers, and become a slayer
of pesky old weeds that won’t listen to reason.
It’s the law of the lawn for every Spring season.
From Some Poems About Life by Bob Welbaum