A Pain in My Grass
Thomas Merton Brightman
All rights reserved

Zhivago branches tapping window
Tears in every pane
Something always waiting in the weeds
Another pain in the grass

To one for whom
So very much was unpredictable

For whom
Spontaneity consistently turned cruel

For whom
Play always ended with punishment

For whom
The face of change was violence

Scanning the horizon
Planning a comeback
Predicting an outcome
Regaining some control
Restoring safety or sanity
Looking for a path of retreat

Uproar always knocking at my door
Wished for sanctuary
Serene spaces and places
Not upheaval and chaos

What celebration
The day I came to laud dandelions
The beauty of their randomness
Their play and disrespect

No longer the symbol of a pain in my grass