Pyracantha

Eggshell sharp, the compost odor seeped
beyond the bin. Dumping, a chore I dreaded
like wearing shoes. The pail slapping
against my thigh, flies on flies, deadening.
The rabbit hutch empty, its door hung loose.
Shrubs grown mad. The lawn. Not tall enough
to reach the clutch still I drove the mower
as in battle, forged the days away in straight paths
until I remade myself—fire and thorn.

Copyright © 2005 Leah Nielsen All rights reserved
from No Magic
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission