Sod
Renee Emerson
Mostly I am trying to keep it all alive.
Moving the sprinklers strategically,
their arms arched over the yard,
artificial rain and rainbow, curling
water into withered patches.
Sod plunked down in a jigsaw
grid, grafted to our land,
new growth, beautiful and soft
for the kids to run on
this summer. Once we only had clover
flowers budding open,
their powdered heads
crowned with bees.
The yard was white with wings;
we never got stung. We ran
with abandon through
the lesser dangers of our lives.