Unperturbed by politics, long grasses reclaim their podium,
once again able to flower at their leisure,
rightly queens of their turf.
If you asked,
none would care what benefits the humans have lost.
Endowed with sensibility, each blade celebrates with the cocklebur.
And while the strike is busy stretching from days to weeks,
long forbidden weeds lift their heads with irreverence.
No longer victims, dandelions express their zest for life,
savouring, with abandon, summer sans herbicide.
Even weak grasses attest to the power of strike action,
finding license to stroke a cornucopia of flora,
as if saying: “love is nature without human intervention.”
Now, if city parks are never mowed,
and weeds indeed overpower canned flower beds,
won’t nature rejoice at our negligence?
Heeding the call of duty,
shan’t it restore order to the land?
An order, which humans abhor,
but cannot claim dominion o’er.
Poor cityslickers whom unkept lawns bewilder.
Even at their cottages, uniformity extends to the emerald grasses.
They frown on nature’s buttery touches.
But at the strikes natural conclusion,
the city will have seen, not only smelt,
life according to a more divine order.
Some might even sympathize with the unbounded potato vine,
finding, they too, would prefer to grow wild.