A Cement Lawn Statue

Once I caught her full in the face with Round-Up. Little sparrows, lecherous in the bushes, hushed their brawls; doves, too, quit their endless mourning,        watched me and waited, for it seemed to me that her nipples stiffened, roused to indignation. The checkered shadow dazed me. White and smooth, her flank told me nothing,        but I was fearful, praying, Foam-Born, Goddess, I've served you, faithful, Aphrodite, how many years? You know it. Pity me this culpable fervor, Cypris!        Only remember how much else I've spared from the cankering poison, all I could, the mutable and the holy. Why should one, though, flourish above all others?        Rather, should not a balance still prevail in your lovely precincts? If I raise this wand to proliferating nature, it is never without the knowledge        I, too, will wither. Then, as bishop's weed with its white lace umbels shook beneath the mist from my hand-pumped sprayer, sun made rainbows through it like Eros' wingbeats.         I was forgiven.