Date Checking

When a delver reads the bones,
They wind from the extremities
Like turning over a stone,
Knapping toward the centerpiece.
The rites hold puzzles in their hunt:
To rearrange the years on their track.
Often the first must go to the back
And the last be brought up front.
The calendar's order is traced
To right shelves in their proper season,
Ostensibly preventing waste.
Donating what's least unfresh is righteous,
Though we know the real reason:
Insurance claims and tax write-offs.

Cutting Grass

I never minded 
Cutting grass (it's just a chore)
Until his outrage;
The next time I took notice,
Frantic grasshoppers cornered,

Butterflies driven
From screaming engines of blades,
Surviving despite
The razing of their green homes.
Before week's end they've grown back.

And from the neighbors'
The crimson cardinal and
His tawny feathered 
Mate return to our trees with
The red-headed woodpecker.

Nose to the grindstone

Nose to the grindstone,
Aspiring to stand ground
With resilient, groaned strain
That grows into grand sound.