She asks me to cut the grass
and has distant and dark glassy eyes.
She is from Venus, now I know. All I
can think of is Frost and his wall
and why must it be cut
—it’s not yet overgrown but an inch—
so with a Keatsian wild surmise
I declare: “Let nature grow.”
What I mean is, let it have a go;
it is not yet a bother
and I for one am dying to know
how the dandelions will loom
over the lawn’s meek mass
watchtower-stalks of radiant yellow.
