Every hour of every day there is love in grass
Why else would deer graze so hungrily?
A Cape Cod, white with blue dormers where the kids once slept
Family sit-down dinners, birthdays, holidays—now all grass
A porch swing complete with voo-doo flyswatter to hit an AM radio
when the Yankees hit a home run
Nights filled with stars
and frogs and crickets and the rising mist
Once a week or so that whole house would worry
enough to make the grass quiver every minute that car was late
That house could stuff dandelions with dreams and good soup
but the girls would safely marry well, yes of course
and the savings bonds would be more than enough, plenty
Grandsons would go to work in flying cars
that ran on rainwater
each generation better and better
Progress
The grass, knee-high on a deer is really the perfect lawn
as immaculate as any garden
“You can’t have The King’s lawn
without The Queen’s garden,” an echo in my head said
all this today, an epilogue to dreams too bitter for deer
whizzing by the smoked-glass windows of my truck
row upon row of daffodils waving at me in the breeze
little yellow flowers with broad shoulders
— By Girard Tournesol
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