A journal of narrative writing.
South Texas Lawn Song

Listen to “South Texas Lawn Song”
read by Katherine Hoerth

Each spring, encino oaks unravel their festoon of catkins, toss them to the wind that carries their seeds over the fence our past pieced together. Go with God, she whispers as the pollen drifts from her branches. Crabgrass creeps beneath the boards and mingles with the carpet blades, sucks dry the soil you water in your crepuscular ritual. You can’t stop the dandelions from peeking up their yellow faces in your bed of sprouts. You curse them as they burst into florets of snow, pop their downy heads above the earthen sheets. Mesquites, too, uncurl from the earth and escape from the monte to our Eden. One sneaks in, a tiny bean pod tucked into the pocket of a child who hasn’t learned that in this yard, that’s a weed and doesn’t belong. This lawn, this carpet of roots and blooms welcomes with its open palm the limon tree for her starry blossoms, a vine of jasmine to cover up the wound. You populate the patio with palm trees, immigrants that stumbled down to the Rio Grande in the thirties when the sweat ran dry. In the garden, you grow sprigs of cilantro, serrano, a row of lettuce, two tomato plants to cling to your trestle and just one single encino for the afternoon shade. You rake and rake the acorns in autumn, toss them over the fence into the dusty rancho on the other side.