I sold the cottage because I could not stop
weeds rising from stone walkways.
Could not poison the relentless moles
and their hilly interruptions or send them
packing with high-frequency sound implants.
I sold the cottage because I could not keep
Giant ants from whispered gnawing could not spray
Away wasps, clear foaming algae from pond,
Keep geese from shitting tracks along its muddy banks.
I sold the cottage because the root-cutting snake
Got lost on its way to the skeptic tanks and bit me
on the ass. Because the odd angle of its roof
trapped rotting leaves, and moisture seeped through.
I sold the cottage because pest-control crystals
Despite their many warnings and dangers
did not kill the odd angels of the dark nightscape.
Because the aerator on the pond drowned the silence.
I sold the cottage because the raft for swimming
was removed for insurance purposes.
I sold the cottage, and I took the money
and buried it beneath the rotting outhouse
of the dream of a place in the country.
I sold the cottage because the great blue heron
across the pond scripted its beautiful calligraphy
across the dusky skies and spelled out my silent shame.