In Which A Reel Mower Inspires Other Ruminations

The cult of human power has in thrall

Your humble sonneteer, as you well know

Who read this blog. So nobody should call

Suprise the news that she doth choose to mow

The grass and weeds that fill and choke her yard

With something she must push herself. She feels

Most virtuous; no fossil fuels, just hard

And sweaty work from her own body, wheels

And whirring blades accomplish what she must

To keep her neighbors friendly. Thus the sun,

Provides her all the power needed, just

As it could do for most of us if one

Of these plans could be worked up, put in place.

To hell with oil; our future's up in space!

In Which My Least Favorite Season Decides To Start

Another reason that I do not love

To live where I do happened just a bit

Ago. The warnings were quite faint above

My music as I took my gloves off, quit

A-hacking at my backyard overgrowth

And betook to enjoy some TV shows.

Instead I cranked the radio and both

Laughed and whined; there may be tornadoes!

'Tis nearly 32 years since one ripped

Through town in '78; we well may

Be due for yet another. We are gripped

Firm in the angry glove of Thor. Someday

These warnings might apply to me and mine,

But for today, I do assure: I'm fine.

In Which Ground Is To Be Broken

My worst friend has the best plan for my yard:
A rented rototiller soon will tear
Into its soil; I hope it won't be hard
To do, but if it is, of course I'll share
A lot of beer to thank him for the toil.
'Tis not the whole expanse he'll overturn,
Just a small garden plot. We've lovely soil
Here in Cheyenne, though of course there's concern:
The growing season's short, but still I hope
To grow some beets and turnips, carrots, some
Nice fennel, parsnips, rutabega. Nope,
Not going for the fancy stuff. That's dumb
Here on the high plains, unless one has built
A full greenhouse. That's "someday" to the hilt!

In Which Cocktail Hour Finally Gives Us An Excuse To Stop What The Rain Could Not

Late afternoon, after a hard day's toil

In my backyard with Dad cracking his whip,

It's cocktail hour. We watch the stormclouds roil

And lightning flash oer all that we did strip

Of weeds and bunch grass at no little cost.

I eschew power tools whene'er I can;

Expensive to maintain, then there's exhaust

Inhaled while working. But as Carol Ann

Sherrod might say, you does with what you has.

And what I had was a vast crop of weeds

Beyond what I felt I could cope with as

A single girl. But now my father bleeds

From helping me. The least that I can do

Is get him drunk, and yes, my mother, too.