Where the grass is greener, it’s painted on,
when flowers last longer, they drank poison—
but you can’t tell him anything, he’s got
to go and make his own discoveries.
He leaves heaven or hell, depending on
who’s friend or boss or bully of moment.
You prepare a feast made of ripe clover, key
lime pie and gumdrops, salad and mint teas
and pray he is the prodigal return
like seasons, sun, delight and Christ, the fruits
of harvest seeds forever sacrificed
to rise and fall again, both green and brown.
First town then city, sea and outer space—migrate with birds, come home to this your place.
Posted for my prompt Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Green which will open Wednesday at 7 AM EST.
Copyright © 2014 S.L.Chast