Leavings
There are scars, three of them
Where the swing set once stood.
Cut into the lawn by years
Of summer happy feet scraping the ground
To stop or – more often – to go higher.
My wife wishes I would sod or seed
Or do whatever must be done
To make the lawn whole once more.
To make the world whole once more
She would have me heal the wounds
That leavings have left.
But I am no physician, no gardener.
I am no healer of wounds.
I’ve no balm or salve.
There are scars, three of them
Where the swing set once stood.
