Sunday, April 17, 2011

Gives A Human Touch


It Gives It A Human Touch

The rip of the rough and ready weed
eater is a roar. Before its
buzz, the poor reedy stalks shiver.
Guillotine of the garden;
death is interminably imminent
and inevitable. I prefer
the handheld method of felling
something. Of snipping the unwanted
with shears. Man to man
combat, so to speak; or rather,
woman to weed. No rip
 of machine, no motor
roar. Just a quiet day
and a wayward growth;
 a woman made of knees
and snips. A pile of tiny,
neatened deaths is much
more dignified in such a way.

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