According to the experts, we are late to mow the meadow—
letting the tall grasses linger as they browned and thinned,
fell over, turned to straw.
It was worth it to escape last year’s heartbreak
when you mowed and creatures scattered—hawks circling.
This year, the ground more barren; nothing but bugs disturbed.
Three years rewilding, doing our best to crowd out “perfect” suburban grass.
My instructions are clear: native flowers only. At the garden store,
the big bag of wildflowers, less than 2% seed, includes invasive oxeye.
On the front of tiny packets, “heirloom” is not native,
and “native” is not always here. I settle on milkweed,
coreopsis, anise hyssop, purple coneflower, larkspur.
After your thatching, we watch the robins peck,
a feast unveiled. I am hoping they will pock the meadow site
make space for sprouting, as I prepare to scatter seeds.
A person I used to be calls from the corner of the garage:
spiked golf shoes, stiff from disuse. I add them to my getup—
ripped jeans, thick socks, golf spikes, flowered apron pockets full of seed.
The pup cries to join me and we are out, as she chases
the smell of rabbit around the budding fruit trees.
I run with her in the brown haze of March, and
my pockets bounce, scattering unimaginable July.
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Patricia Davis-Muffett (she/her) holds an MFA from the University of Minnesota. Her chapbook, Alchemy of Yeast and Tears, was published in spring 2023. Her work has won honors including Best of the Net nomination and second place in the 2024 Joe Gouveia Outermost Poetry Contest (selected by Marge Piercy), and appears in Best New Poets, Atlanta Review, Whale Road Review, Calyx and About Place, among others. She lives in Rockville, Maryland with her family. You can read more of her work at www.PatriciaDavisMuffett.com.
© 2024, Patricia Davis-Muffett
Halfway Down the Stairs 