The Waste
When we lived in the East
everyday I fought the mountains.
Pulled new stalks off old weeds whose
roots were older than me and the house.
Devised new fencing, containment systems to
keep three generations of deer out of my prideful tomatoes.
Cried to discover they only took one bite of each.
The waste, the waste.
I surrendered when,
after a new netting attempt,
the self-dismembered bodies of two sparrows.
All franticness and tempest.
Caught in the crossfire of my war of attrition with the deer.
The waste, the waste.
2 thoughts on "The Waste"
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I love the balance of the repeated end. Very affecting.
Your choices for details and the comparisons you make convince that you did indeed leave in the East. Pulling new stalks off of old weeds – with roots older than you and the house. Oh my god. You are a poet for sure.