Here on the border, New Hampshire and Maine,
I watch the brown world through my windowpane
begin to go green, to spring once again.
The mossy, rockbound, hilly terrain
of my yard, I can now ascertain,
is a moldy, crotchety, ugly domain:
dead leaves, fallen branches, have lain
under snow the whole winter. Now a toy train,
a split frisbee, odd stones, compose the moraine.
I sigh. I wish by some legerdemain
I could clean it all up, simply ordain
a neatness. Sure, and order the sun, the rain.
The dried bamboo sticks, it’s plain,
are mocking me now. I will not profane
the air with my curses, but those are the bane
of my landscape: cane after cane, after cane,
their invincibility drives me insane.
What’s more, they remind me how arthritic pain
has me hobbled, three-legged, constrained
to walk with a stick. Perhaps I’ll never regain
my gardening self. Someone else will maintain
my grounds. That’s that. No use to complain.
What else can I do? Order out for chow mein,
wash it down with champagne,
try to treasure whatever obtains,
accept the inevitable, ultimate reign
of the gods, however arcane.