Crops

The backyard grass is way high.
I am walking the dog
Before we leave him behind
To travel up to Atlanta
For Sister Susan's birthday party,
But my attention is caught
By the height of the grass,
So thick and dark green,
And lush, and I am oddly
Proud, like a farmer in his field
Admiring his corn crop,
All the time realizing
That everything would look better
And neater, if it was cut shorter.

I have the same thought
When I stare sleepily at my tousle of hair
In the morning mirror.