Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out

Melinda Coppola

twenty four may | from the inside out


I saw an army of righteous
green soldiers, spines erect,
facing away from the wind
to trick the opposition
into doubting their strength.


Another day, a thousand brushes—
great green swaths of them,
moist and willing to receive dust
from coats of dogs, little bunnies,
the neighbor’s insolent white cat.


Who’s to say that morning song—
so faint, a human eardrum
almost fails to vibrate
to the collective rhythm—
isn’t the hundreds humming,
blade to blade, a verdant,
tender song?


It’s a welcoming,
a soft landing,
a place to drop your pretense
and your weighty, egoic yearn
for the other big green,
the paper one,
the kind that drives
good people to harm
and ruin.


The ChemLawn company
pushes planticide,
reinforcing the sad notion
there is only one kind
of good green ground cover.
The weeds protest
but in many communities
they are marginalized,
in some even reviled.


The shiny stems,
enjoying human-made rains,
look down on the drier,
yellow ones, as if
the lack of water in their patch
is a character flaw.


They hate their haircuts,
not so much for the stinging
the mower blades impart,
but more for the buzzing,
droning, blade-altering
sound that wounds the chlorophyll,
causing it to weep green tears.


Do wild grasses have a better life?
Besieged by insects, gnawed
by wild creatures,
but oh! the dances
the whistling winds
bring on.


We have had quite too much
of the sickly sweet chemicals
their sprayers assault us with,
the artificial excrement
they think we thrive on.
Bad enough they planted us here,
but they way they keep
extinguishing our thicker brothers
and thornier sisters
is nothing short of criminal.


I saw a yard
on Househunters,
some West Coast thing
with a bungalow set on it.
The grass was uber green,
uniform height, and only
when the prospective owners
stepped on it did I realize
it was fake, and that this is a thing.


Why not just spray paint
the ground outside your dwelling?
Wouldn’t that be less violent
than all the hacking,
and treating,
and wouldn’t it be fun
to watch the neighbors react?


I got belly down on it,
slid around awhile,
then quieted, and watched.
Whole families of little spikes,
bending and
cooing to their young,
looking up at their fine
grown sons and daughters,
content and proud.
What we could learn from our grasses!


Opening the windows
to the sweet scent of it
after rain,
my nose filling greedily,
grateful to be among
the allergy free.


–Melinda Coppola





2 Responses

  1. Amazing poem . So beautifully written from a “grass point of view”.
    Needs to be shared , so many can be made aware of it’s plight.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *