If Blades of Grass Were Dollars

I'd be a millionaire, a billionaire maybe.
Just look at all that green. God, it's gorgeous
out there, working its magic: sun to sugar,
with some oxygen to boot, for good measure.
Short on cash, we labor-cost-averaged our
way to this wealth, trailing a modest flock
of egg-laying chickens across this pasture
behind a tiny dairy goat herd. Snailing our
way, twenty-five feet at a time for two years,
we—they—fed the soil even as it fed them—
and us. Now, this green, this rich, verdant
mass of stored sunshine, is our return. Birds
and beasts are back to feast, and to feed their
ground again. Is there no end to this bounty?