May 13, 2017


The morning mower

runs back and forth,

leaving deep furrows

in each brow.

I only hope

he knows his place,

and stays within

his bounds, somehow.

So intent is he

upon his task,

he sees every

blade of grass.

And for all our sakes,

I hope he never

makes mistakes,

cutting too close,

waking those

who sleep so still,

beneath each curve

and rolling hill.