Cuttin' the Grass

When you first set forth with the push mower

with your sneakers white and clean,

the first three rounds of misery

was all you had foreseen.

You knew you’d have to lift the flowers

and that sticks and stones are mean—

they blind you, break your bones, while the

grass just makes your shoes turn green!

But soon your tracks start to remind you

of the rounds you made before,

when you took the wide angles without knowing

of what would be in store—

of times when you were newer to it

and the task looked like a chore—

times when the prejudice of the blades

made you wonder what it all was for.

Then just as you carved your path known

for dad’s chore made you feel wronged,

the journey’s toil left and you

got where you belonged.

For working at the fringe closed up the world

as the open green heart spawned, 

and as the dying sun entombed itself

and work withdrew and rain resumed

the deep lawn’s gone, 
you’ve gone beyond,

and there’s a dog in the yard!

But when paid for all your work,

zen it all made sense—

$5.50 

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--Poems from the Sprawl