Tuesday, September 8, 2009

The Grass

While the grandson
Chases his hormones
Or searches for himself
I take on the job
That was yours

Following your
Footsteps I see you
As I push the old
Craftsman along
The Euclidian paths
You cut in the yard.
Triangles, quadrants,
Doglegs and squares,
Outside to inside
Plotting a course
To bring the machine
Close to walls
Avoid throwing
Grass on the drive.

The blade slices
through a pine cone
With a gritty sound,
The varied scent of
Fresh cut grasses
Drift up as I mow
Kentucky Blue, clover,
Tru Value play yard.
Birds rush to
The feast of
New uncovered
Bugs and slugs
And worms.

As I rest on the bench
Beneath the pear trees
I admire how the place
Seems to be head up,
Shoulders back like you,
Trimmed and ready
To go out.

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