© Elizabeth Barrette
A ridge of bare brown mud runs through my yard,
Legacy of a small construction project, high enough
To resist mowing. I decide
That I do not want to see it come up all weeds.
I buy a can of wildflower seeds and, cultivator
in hand, Go forth to do battle with entropy
On its own turf. The earth is naked, crumpled,
Disdained even by dandelions this early in spring.
