I can bust my ass, forever mowing,
weeding, trimming trees, pulling vines,
and all that’s left is an eye-blink of a cleared yard
cunningly waiting for its compadres to come on back,
like a haircut, always growing out and wild again.
Trees proceed to sprout new limbs, more than before,
everywhere the vines curl around aging pipes and fences
that rust away under the hard beating rain and sun,
their tearing tendrils crawling upon crumbling stone walls,
rooting in the widening crevices where mortar falls away in chunks.
It’s a loser’s game, a fool’s gamble, how I labor
at restraining Nature’s grip, its stranglehold,
my yard, all day and night, regenerating itself,
all flora conspiring, a monster rising
thickly muscled and overpowering.
From the Earth’s hot depths, it’s coming back,
reclaiming its rightful throne, and it’s bringing hell with it,
while I toss the dice in this burgeoning green-world casino,
no clocks to tell how quickly my time is wasted, rolling craps,
chips flying from my hands, here, where the house always wins.
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Today’s word is
Use it a piece of any kind of writing, then post it and link to me, or simply leave it in the comments below. I would love to read what you wrote. Mahalo.