We Wait and We Wait

Then the thing rushes in at us, 
thick as fog, green as a storm. 

I did so well for so long. 
Since Thanksgiving.
Cold hard water troughs had to be hammered to let the water up for the birds.
Rain was cold and frost was jagged.

Solstice swept in with summer heat, then back to rain, 
dripping sprinkles light enough for a new lawn. 
So many birds feasting on grass seed 
that a second bag must be sown, then even more.

Each day we watched the tiny green blades fight towards the light. We stared and watched, finally letting it be,
knowing green blades would fill in, 
eventually was filling in in bare spots. 

Birds drifted away when their wild birdseed was not refilled.
We checked morning, noon and night...the growth is infinitesimal.
The gophers try to move the house.
Time is on their side.

Rain pours and pours and a foot step sinks,
a collapsed tunnel, now a low spot.
And a muddy shoe trips...a lumpy mole hill.
This kind of sturdy grass creeps on, growing through mowing, through muck.

That patch is not a lawn at all finally.
No flat to be seen, but not quite dirt either.
Land. Field. Yard. Driveway. Cold before Christ's birthday.
We live here? Right here? Garbage cans at the driveway?

I know childhood eyes can't see their older adulthood. Not even adults can; can't see nights spent drowsing, snapping to conclusions,
then drift again to a restless sleep until the next wondering wakes us. 
Sick with fear, colored blinding magnesium. So hot I'm shivering.