Rite of Passage

by Peter Henry

Taking the field hostage was easy:
my brother & I synchronized our faces

& rendezvoused at the first sign of stubble: him
flanking the meadow, me driving

up the middle, brandishing my pushmower.
With all the milk asleep in those cows, we figured

we could hole up for months. Our mistake lay in believing
the trees would cave in to our demands,

& day by day we've unravelled like sentences.

First the trees ignored us entirely,
huddling at the edge of the field

like lepers at the senior prom. Then the pollen,
circling us all day, shouting a lower price with each pass.

My brother says we should cut our losses,
stick to putting greens & traffic islands.

He's always been the underachiever.

I say we've already cast our lot, snatch up a daffodil
& shout my demands at the thicket: Deciduate,

or else the flower sleeps with the algae!
The oaks shout back something about autumn.