He looks out the window, “Gotta cut the grass again.
Every time I turn around, It’s too high.
We can’t have anyone complaining.”
He always waits until the cool of the evening:
There is less chance of burning the grass
In the merciless heat.
She looks out the window:
There’s old Juan Carlo cutting the grass again.
Someone remarks, ”Around here, no one cuts their own lawn.”
Old Juan Carlo runs over some of the flowers
But she smiles and thanks him when he’s done.
The grass keeps right on growing
Regardless of these efforts to contain it
In its concrete prison of
Driveways and houses and
Roads we can not travel.
His mind wanders as he pushes the mower
To some place where the grass grows
Her mind escapes as she plants more flowers
(Impatians-they’ll do well under the shade of this tree)
To a place where the grass and the wildflowers
As tall as they please
And no one bothers them.
Their wandering minds end up in the same place:
A field rolling and ablaze with color.
A place where long ago a lady appreciated the beauty
Of tall grass and wildflowers dancing together.
So the lady had wildflower seeds sown throughout the hills
And along the highways
Among the grass that grows wild there.
People come now from miles around
And stare, mouths agape, at the beauty of these hills.
It’s a rare thing to see grass and wildflowers growing together
As they should.
The reason for the unique beauty of these hills is plain
To anyone who takes the time to understand.
Here, you see, along these roadsides
And all over these hills
It is illegal to cut the grass.