I love lawns. They are soft and green, and continuous,
uninterrupted. When you look out on a broad expanse
of lawn, your heart is soothed. Your eye lingers.
I know about water. But household consumption of water
is only ten percent of consumption overall, and though
sixty percent of that goes to the watering of lawns,
that’s still a small percentage in the great scheme of things.
I know about mowers. But is there no place where I can be
mechanical? Where I can roar? Where I can breathe in
the smells of gas and fresh cut grass and think of my father
with his broad shoulders? His crewcut? His Toro?
Some days when the wind comes from the north, I catch
the sweet odor of the landfill. One day the only mountains
will be mountains of Styrofoam. I know that—
we spring up in the morning and wither at last. And yet
still I long for the broad green lawn. It covers
ground. It is smooth. It has one idea. It is composed
of blades, and over every blade, the Talmud says,
there is an angel whispering grow, grow.