Mothers edges:
Queen Annes lace,
brown eyed Susans,
bunny nose, lupins.
A twenty foot wide swath
slaughtered on the borders made
of concrete and tar.
Why must we be so tidy?
Why must we truck in the
mighty tractors and razored gangs
to trim the fringe of Natures gown
already criss-crossed with
paved turnpikes, dirt roads,
and “come see the forest primeval”
mulched hiking paths?

Do we think She can be contained
by dams, concrete and blade?

Give the old dame a decade unmolested
to rid Herself of our
puny squared grids,
our powerful pavilions
turned to rust and dust.

In a millenia, search, in futility,
for some remainders,
minimal reminders of us.