I've been having an ongoing battle with dandelions, digging them up, messing up the surface of my lawn, adding grass seed, moving sods around. Is there any point? Spring is here and I'm not sure. I've dug thousands of dandelions and thousands more to dig. But I was reminded of last year's poem on the subject, and thought okay, this is that time of reckoning. And yes, I think so, maybe, surely, there's been some effect!
Time - The Thyme Lawn
Who has time for poems
when there’s orchard grass
in lush tufts all through the lawn,
not just in the tall stiff spiky spots
but in patches all throughout?
I become an expert in unwanted grasses
that I dig from the lawn, leaving scars
of earth that I throw seed on, but that grows
in weeds and that I later fill
with pieces of thyme from my garden
and from the thyme lawn at the park,
high growing and low growing thymes
that I prefer to tough tall grasses
that pop up too fast after the mower passes.
As many as I dig and hoe as many more appear
and grow more vividly and roughly for my work.
As the ending of the summer nears
I hope for fall rains and responsive seed.
Hope, that great company, follows my feet
through the sand under them and imagines
the green carpet next year will bring.
Perhaps it will be next summer before I read
this poem again, and what is underfoot
will not need telling. And, not only this
meddling and planting will have had its way,
but whatever followed after, and after that.
Whatever’s soft or sharp, thrifty or struggling,
will have made its way and be making way
for whatever follows that.
Time - The Thyme Lawn
Who has time for poems
when there’s orchard grass
in lush tufts all through the lawn,
not just in the tall stiff spiky spots
but in patches all throughout?
I become an expert in unwanted grasses
that I dig from the lawn, leaving scars
of earth that I throw seed on, but that grows
in weeds and that I later fill
with pieces of thyme from my garden
and from the thyme lawn at the park,
high growing and low growing thymes
that I prefer to tough tall grasses
that pop up too fast after the mower passes.
As many as I dig and hoe as many more appear
and grow more vividly and roughly for my work.
As the ending of the summer nears
I hope for fall rains and responsive seed.
Hope, that great company, follows my feet
through the sand under them and imagines
the green carpet next year will bring.
Perhaps it will be next summer before I read
this poem again, and what is underfoot
will not need telling. And, not only this
meddling and planting will have had its way,
but whatever followed after, and after that.
Whatever’s soft or sharp, thrifty or struggling,
will have made its way and be making way
for whatever follows that.