Fifteen yards by eight of earth
Buried by a lawn.
A fence, a shed, a huge blue sky,
A greedy tree that grew too high
Whose roots now threaten damage
To the patio and the path.
That lawn needs mowing
Every other week
And in between, indoors,
Are chores that must be tackled
Every weekend, every day.
We are no more than our confinement,
Live no longer than our lives take
To repeat. So this is me
And this is how my days will pass:
Hedged by birth and death,
As even as my grass.