Friday the 13th
The purple henbit, all decked out
in lavender and fuchsia bloom,
sunbathes in the soft spring grass.
Not to tan, nor to preen, certainly
not to relax after a hard bit of work
coming to this point in such a short-
lived existence.
Little do these tiny plants know,
here in suburban life, someone will
shortchange them, like pieces
of silver traded for an American
Tru-green, serviced lawn,
doctored with with poisons.
And if not dispensed with that way,
a little surgery by mower-blade
will chop them nicely, fine as ashes,
without even a tell-tale streak left.
No state funeral necessary. Certainly
no monument, no entombment, no grave,
for such require real
estate, this idea of some permanence,
this idea of claim, of control.
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