GREEN GRASS

Adrian Korpel
(dedicated to Spring and April, poetry month.)

Sitting quietly, doing nothing: 

Spring comes 

and the grass greens itself. 

                                    Zen saying 

The grass greens itself? 
Come again?

I mean, think of the trips to the garden store,
your earnest questions made light of by
the green-aproned store clerk 
who severely skewers your skills 
with his aerated-soil prattle 
and his erudite pH babbling. 

The people behind you in line are snickering 
as your appalling ignorance 
of all matters yard-like 
is revealed down to the tiny taproot
of your tree of knowledge.

I mean what do you really know about grass, 
rye grass, fescue, blue grass, zoysia, bentgrass 
how and what it likes, sour or sweet, 
salty or bitter, 
tangy or tacky, 
and how much water, 
how much blood meal, nitrates, phosphates, 
carbon, photons, molecules, Miracle-Grow. 

Hard work is ahead, 
spreading, hoeing, edging, raking, cutting, 
cursing the crabgrass, the clover, 
the thistles, the wormy apples on the lawn, 
the rabbit holes, the fallen branches,
the stalled lawnmower, 
the sweat of your brow, 
your grass-clogged throat, 
your pollen-plugged nose, 
your stinging sides,
your achy-breaky heart.

When Spring comes: 

Sit quietly, Do nothing.