A Cutting Edge Paradox

Mr. Groen maintained a modest but pleasant yard.
Saturdays in season he cut the grass with a push
mower, pruned roses, fertilized, spread compost.
Martha Groen watered the beds full of crimson
geraniums, purple peonies, tulips, daisies, and
such that fancied her seasonal gardening moods.
But back to back dry nasty winters followed by
suns so hot the weatherman warned of drought,
and the city curtailed yard watering with fines.
Weeds bolted like bad thoughts coming from
nowhere but filling the mind with oil and gas.
Mites appeared, worms, mildews, the antithesis
of a long forgotten paradisaical anthesis.
They still sat out, but they let the yard go.


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