Man in a Green Field

I am not my father's elbow

or the shadow of his hips--

but I have his round lips

and penchant for pursing.

Career man though he was,

wrangling over annuities

and mutual funds, I often

found him wrestling

with the yard's entropy,

waging an awkward war

against disorder in front

of our suburban home--

pushing back the tall grass

in our ditch with a sickle

and a can of gasoline.

I'd admire the fire

from a window--

though once I crept

closer watching it burn

an arm's length away.

His weekends were spent

crafting our scruffy grass--

power-mowing perfect stripes

holding back the tide

of chaos with ardor.

He sold insurance

but worked the yard

in earnest like Sisyphus.

Backyard in April

Praise for kingdoms in a spoonful of stagnant

water, universes hidden in the shock of change.

For this flooded grass once a green cathedral

of clover and bee, now flattened and brown.

For drowned slugs with layers of beech leaves

floating over them like unused life preservers.

Praise for the duck pool brimming over

with brownish goo I dip both hands into

cupping palmfuls of water-bear and larvae,

unsung heroes vacuuming the smothering algae.

Praise for disarray and transition, this familiar place

run amuck that doesn't need me to succeed.

For ripples of hesitation waving through me

embracing the uncertainty of impermanence--

for gray hues, granite and silica, the wearing down

and building up of raw unfiltered essence.

And this dripping garden shed gently slumping

toward ruin, framed by a hemlock's green lace.

The Universe Is Expanding at an Alarming Rate

Lichen on trees convey the decay of time

through our collective consciousness.

Erosion grinds the loftiest mounts to sand.

For cosmologists or just you and me

the book of everything promises

constant and often unwelcomed change.

Margins of confidence and standard error

can be as small as a cell gone rogue

or as large as the field housing cosmos.

Hurtling through space, mass-energy

converts to wave; but still the soul grumbles,

dissatisfied with theoretical highbrow.

Only two things are infinite, Einstein warned

from his quasar: universe and stupidity.

The heavens unfold, but stupidity grows inward.

Wingless glider, the universe creeps further away.

The train arrives tomorrow before it leaves today,

whistling like a sonnet in perfect doppler.

The above poems are Copyright © Edward Nudelman 2025