we mulched today—
laid a smelly shag carpet
under the trees, smothered tiny maples
that did the best they could.

amid bushes that flourished
in spite of us, tiny sprouts also
dot the landscape,
ground cover that never took off.
they were supposed to spread their arms, hug the earth;
instead, they spring up,
here, there, but not everywhere.

an avalanche of mulch covers one,
and i consider moving on,
slapping my gloves,
washing my hands of it.
i’m hurried, and tired.

but then—
dammit.
the kingdom of heaven
is like a woman who dug out a pachysandra,
absurd and hopeless,
like a bad plug on a bald head.