In every dry and crispy lawn,
Green gets lighter except when,
Near the curb, where wind blown sins,
No seeds of weeds take root and spawn.
Sprouts of darker, invasive green appear,
Without regard here, for the perfect
Intentions, the daily efforts,
The ‘master men’ who tend it fear.
So does a swarm, a swiftly moving
Line of militant black ants
Invade; invading, now in the confines
Of your most secured place resting.
There are so many!
Where did they come from?
Worthy of mocking to believe
I’d be perfectly insulated.
Others, ‘self righteous’, would remove
Every last book, without reprieve,
Works or thoughts or poems too,
An erasure, a cultural cancel,
Yet they themselves still get ants and weeds.
One sure remedy, His loving Mercy to pursue.
And then,
Begin again.
Pray.
Begin again.
Gary Edward Geraci