The Order of Things
The neighborhood treeline cuts fractallike
into the cloudless pink infinitude
of the morning sky.
Daylight enters this place
of trimmed grass and white fences,
not boorishly, but with slow respect
for the night that has been,
like a samurai drawing another’s sword.
Yesterday I mowed the back lawn,
wielding my coughing engine and whirling blades
boorishly, hacking with human impatience
the parts of nature’s growth
least convenient to me.
Today I am writing a poem about it.
In five thousand years, the treeline
will cut fractallike into the cloudless pink infinitude
of the evening sky.