Manicured
Another spring and we must choose
between the mountain and the tree,
the value of an unobstructed view.
Somewhere along the way a maple
trumped a white pine the way honey
bees are revered, paper wasps removed.
The way the landscaper laughs when I
ask for those orange flowers that blow
in the wind. “Crap,” he calls them, “ditch
lilies.” My green eye finds invasives
pretty, wild olives taking over
the lawn. I’d love to be taken over
by wildness. The tree man holds
his chainsaw, waits for my direction.
Heather Newman’s chapbook Unidentified Domestic Object is new from Kelsay Books. Read more.