I have no right to complain

I have no right to rage about the rain

trickling into my dry cellar floor

when houses ransacked by the flood,

the floorboards, couches caked in mud,

appliances, albums, heirlooms loved

all heaped in piles outdoors

remind me that

I have no right to complain.

 

I have no right to whine about the weeds

thriving while my zinnias are not blooming

when ravaged crops of corn and hay,

the verdant stalks now brown and grey,

and next-year’s seeds all swept away,

the end of season looming

convict me that

I have no right to complain.

 

I have no right to gripe about the grass

incessant in its constant need for mowing

when farmers look over a field,

the barren rows washed of their yield,

they pray for their land to be healed

while my lawn keeps on growing

and tells me that

I have no right to complain.

 

I have no right to moan about the mud

swallowing my parked car at the fair

when shops and restaurants were deluged

and snow shovels had to be used

to scrape away the muck that oozed

through books and silverware

O teach me that

I have no right to complain.

Suzanne Rood, Vergennes