Last Neighbor Out
From the 16th Day of NaPoWrMo. One of my more lighthearted works. I still hate yard work.
The weeds must be cut down to the level of dirt it has evaded and violated since the finale of spring's triathlon, the baby dandelions beheaded while they're still yellow and unsalted by a bee that's yet to get into a frenzy of pollination that does justice to why Its two words away from 'birds' position remains permanent more than a winter overstaying its welcome in late March, and reeds uprooted and placed in the care of the whims of the winds they incessantly twirl and tumble within more methodically than an insomniac with severe tinnitus— a droning buzz from a vehicular lawn mower with a longer life span than a star one billion years away from going supernova but a shorter perception than a squiggle in the corner of our perspectives, faster than summer's unfashionably late arrival, and early introduction to autumn. God help me if I'm the only one making noise.
Love the breathless rhythm of this poem, mimicking the urgent recklessness of spring.
I like your lighthearted side of you, Daniel!!!