NATURE Poem: NO MOW MAY, by Jonathan Memmert

Grass grown tall green slicks drizzle wet,
new planted seedlings shakily take hold,
crumpled mulch retains soil covered mold,

run tongued dogs
checked for ticks
lap water bowls.

And I am left with trowel and rake
to gather weeds in sunlit rain still cold.

How easily

I have

forgotten

where

to start

in nature’s language

to uproot

the untranslatable.