Repairing the Meadow

i've spent almost

a decade of a life

restoring to native

plants this half acre

of meadow gently

rolling to the west

of the tree house

where i live

that i might walk

out the front door

to step inside

a reflection of me

between clumps

and tangles of tough

meadow grasses

alfalfa and red clover

i've troweled in

drifts of rusty sweet

joe-pye weed

vernonia liatris

golden helianthus

and watched them

without exclusion

or recrimination

transform sunlight

into their passion for

all living things

witnessed light through

leaves of serviceberry

amplifying green into

a heretofore unimagined color

touched to remember

monarda's fecundity

of mauve petals

and always

so much yellow

of crownbeard

wingstem

silphium and

solidago

shouting in the

waning hours

of september

about the last

of summer's fires

surrounded

by these passing legions

of thistle milkweed

oats and poppies

anchored beneath

white oaks and

an ancient mulberry

set long ago

by no one

anyone

now remembers

my neighbor stops

by to say how

i should mow

the brush

trim the bushes

to make a great spot

for us to practice golf

but i don't play at that

and there's this rumor

that the county board

plans to rezone

the farmland to allow

for power lines

to feed the world's

endless thirst

for nonsense

from data servers

we all must fight

to make that stop

and without

invitation

the voice of the

old gray ghost

of what might be

my long dead mother

forever squinting

frowning sighing

quipping how the field

looks weedy

but with so much

callused love

poured in

how could a whisper

from the past

fade this tapestry

in the morning

i will return

to labor and repair

the hidden furrows

plowed by self-doubt

anger and loss

listen as best i can

to the song the meadow sings

inviting me again to step out

of my mind's dark rooms into

the wilds of my longing heart