The grass

 Shackle shackle wrists cuffed. I won’t be owned by you.

Rich soil,  mulch leaves earth, as those before me, savor water. 

Lawn grass, narrow and flat, perfectly covered clay. Rejecting you in deluge.

I don’t care if my grass looks cute. Why the fuck should you?

Now we rise, our eyes our lives, your play.

My grass will not conform, you get no say.

I’ll be a slave to this earth, my shackles bracelets, a delicately minimalist statement. 

Mother of all, independence long overdue, neighbor,

I am free of you.