March 1, 2015


Down the street,
the steady throb 
of mowers
takes me back
to the expanse of lawn
I cut as a boy,
above the sound
my father yelling
how to go,
the growing green
before me
stretching on and on,
his voice trailing off,
somewhere way behind.
I can hear him still,
urging me
forever ahead,
the smell of cut grass
and gasoline,
never too far
from my wandering mind.