I took a weed-whacker
out to the garden and cut it
all down. It was time:

well before harvest, well before
even blooming, in fact not long
into growing. It was time.

I stood there after and inhaled
the wet green scent of what I had done
and felt like a horseman 

from one of the old tales, surveying
the battlefield aftermath. I felt 
that I was seeing farther now

and I turned back to the house itself
and took a pipe to the windows.
It was time: I broke stubborn shards

from the frames with my bare hands
though they were too torn to grip right.
It was time: I licked blood

from myself until I felt noble
again. It was time:
having spent years blunted

by history and weak knees,
by my own diluted story, it was time
to regain the place I deserved;

though it was a ruin
to all who saw it
it was home at last — and then I woke

to the alarm sounding softly
from the bedside. It was time.
Sat up in bed in the aftermath of the dream

clenching and relaxing my hands,
looking around at too-familiar ruin.
It’s time, I told myself. It’s time.