PROJECT REBUILD

each oiled sunflower a promise:

on the drumlin built by graders, maybe:

ragweed, goldenrod, lion's teeth

keep rooting. Nothing new.

Maybe your neighbours curse the poison by-laws,
dip their Agent Orange into creeks

to rub their palms on Astroturf.
Maybe each of us envies one another's infinity

pools, wants our Billy bookshelves replaced by teak. 

Once more, maybe, way back, 

the birds dig deep and chorus.  

Their cast-off shells on the lawn's 

off-pitch outfield: organic, I bet, and fairly traded,

with feeling.