Order in the Grove

The small grove has been let go,
looks ragged as worn cuffs
on an old coat, a hodge-podge
of thickets, raspberry bushes,
dead limbs, fallen trees,
it invites rabbits, squirrels,
skunks, one beaver, chipmunks
to become citizens. Birds loiter
and litter tawdry taverns
of branches.
The fence I built is straight,
wires trim, taut, posts vertical,
next door my cornfield maintains
a decorous pattern of squares.
So with ax and saw and scythe
I whacked at the grove until
it became a little park, all
neat and trimmed and mowed—
but not one squirrel came to say
thank you, not one bird composed
a song for the occasion.