Brendan Petty
The yard is filled with clover,
dandelions, and wildflowers;
lush green scattered
with purple, white, and yellow.
An expansive beauty I am doomed to cut down.
I sit on the front steps
and spark my lighter
while contemplating this reality,
of colorful life as ethereal as the smoke
from my smoldering cigarette.
Circles of burnt tobacco scars
to remind me of this process’s pain.
The smell of a blowing spring breeze
invades my nostrils
so that I don’t forget its pleasure.
New growth awaits beyond bloom,
but not until the cutting is through.
Burnt oil and noxious exhaust
will toxify the air as a dull blade spins,
round and round, a rigorous cycle.
Fortunately, the cycle eventually ends,
and the fog clears.
Chopped and sheared, the plants still grow,
upwards towards summer;
just as this cherry burns, leaving ash.
The trees around here,
stand tall in their branches of beauty,
year after year,
through spring, summer, and fall;
taking winter to rest.
Perhaps at some fateful point
I’ll learn what the trees have to teach,
on how to plant
my restless feet in the ground,
and form a foundation of roots.