Poems

The farmlands are mostly gone now, paved over, plowed under, transformed by tar and girded by concrete and order. But there, on the curve of the cul-de-sac, the wild creeps in. Mansions consume large lots, sport cultured lawns awash with weed killer that seeps and runs and strangles the native flowers, but deep within the curated grass, the wild creeps in. The wooded groves, the prairie fields struggle to retain purchase amid the plats with throwback names: Settler’s Walk