Spring arrives with tentative steps, promising flowers, but (bar the occasional crocus, scarce, and soon gone) not delivering yet. The died-back, low-grown lawn is now revealed to be a dozen species, all of them, even the weed ones, disdaining to thrive in certain mangy patches of bare dirt. The leafless trees branch shamelessly into wicked fingernails. The leaves pressed into mud, banning the grass, are as attractive as smashed cigarette packs.
Walking it, boots sinking in muck, scooping up severed tree-parts as from a body-strewn battlefield. Sweeping scraping raking twig-lengths, clammy grass-thatch, and stubborn sweetgum seeds. Some spring.
It is, in this, like a very baby: newborn, red and runted, face screwed up in rage, but nurtured, soon smiling, blooming, fattening, filling out.
So I diaper the flowers, and change the lawn, with patience. Nature will do the rest.
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