The juvenile delinquent work crew
is here to mow the wild grass
in the lot across the street.
Each year this time they pile out
of the van in twos and threes,
weed whackers in hand,
moving from one end of town to
the other, until all the fields are bare.
Some years they come too soon
when the wildflowers are still in bloom,
a blanket of purple flowers low to the ground.
It makes me too sad to speak, losing that.
It makes me want to whack them around.
The rest of it is a necessary fire precaution
I’ve come to accept, though that acceptance
came hard, as things seem to. No doubt
because too often I’ve been the victim
of that indiscriminate pruning back,
weeded and whacked,
indiscriminately pruned back.