Gardening

The grass’ cut offs-

Sixty square yards

reduced to a  cubic foot

throw on my nose

their deadly grassy aroma

screaming their throats out

in a chorus of hatred slang-

I never thought

they were capable of,

nor did I dare to question

its sense of hate, or meaning...

While listened to their hopeless

sense of conviction

worded as a simple resistance, but

hugely, significantly threatening -

threatening with multiplication

of their own kind…

I feel defenseless

while I trim their spiky leaves

mowed to tiny bits

steadily, carelessly, then

I assemble them together

to give them the last chance

to say goodbye to one another

before I sac them up,

before they turn yellowish

and get suffocated

by each-other’s pressure…

And I can hear the grassy roots

screaming their throats out in defiance:

‘You’ll see- we’ll be back!’

Annoyed, but proud

they act as oldies do-

likely to wear and keep odd thing

that have run out of fashion

with no sentimental value

I tick in my calendar

the next mowing date

and throw the sacs in the green bin…

I smile a last time

to the garden’s trimmed hair...

Perparim 2005