by Wendy BooydeGraaff
Bees buzzing, hummingbirds humming, blue jays
cawing. Squirrels, bunnies, and at night, opossum,
skunk, deer. I’ve seen a fox, too, in my headlights,
tail pluming through the fence. Our yard, less than
an acre, a wildlife preserve dropped amid suburban
lawns unrolling like green desert. People round here
are obsessed with lawns, the mowing, the fertilizing,
the edging, straight shots of lines on green, chippers
eating up trees that get in the way. Their houses, little
blue or beige blisters on the green. What happens
when the water restrictions come? What will they do
with their time? How long will it take for the parched,
chemicalled expanse to sprout violets, maple trees, wild
juniper? What if we didn’t fight what wanted to grow?
What if you, me, all of us let a spot within our places
go wild, corridors of trees for the fox and bobcats
to travel, pots of wild for the bumblebees and rain to find.
Wendy BooydeGraaff’s poems have been included in Cutleaf, Flyover Country, About Place Journal, Chapter House Journal, and her other work has been included in Ninth Letter Online, X-R-A-Y, Slag Glass City, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in Michigan, USA.