"Once in Autumn."
Once in autumn I saw the sun rise
in the wrinkles of a tree like passion on an old man's face.
My father armed with shears came out
and trimmed the little shrubs to death.
And always in a wild backyard, my father
stepped upon his flesh.
Those blind galoshes struck the Earth and tough as trucks
his hands ran loose killing the plants they couldn't name.
A lawn or passion if ignored may rise around a house like fire.
Son, my father said, fight back the garden
with its big green hips.
I fought a beast of leaves instead.
But with a scowl, my iron dad cut down the grass
to a proper flame.
He said too many flowers and then though with a hose
I'd been their stem, my scowling conscience cut them off.