Off With Their Heads

 

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Clover perjures itself
throughout the yard,
lying from over its length
and width, operating as
grass without a license.
Long-shadowed rabbits browse
amid all my green that isn’t
fescue or Kentucky blue.
Here and there, a pink beacon
peeks mockingly above
the grass line, humiliating
my opposing-thumbed efforts
to keep all this green
some uniform height.
Sundown’s almost here and
those ruminants reappear
in their long shadows like
judges’ robes, pronouncing
sentence on the three-leafed
liars no one ever sowed,
executing them like Sanson,
lopping their toppings
whether royal or revolutionary,
just munched like they were mowed.

Ouch, a first draft that needs a rabbit’s touch just like those clover flowers.

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One thought on “Off With Their Heads

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