Mowing

MOWING

If when mowing the lawn you are self-

propelled by visions of yourself 

on the front porch, a glass of lemonade

like a scepter in your hand as you gaze out

over your kingdom at last laid low 

and lined, read the reviews: this engine

putters out before the work is through. 

The grass is too good at what it does.

It never tires. You do. But hey, if you’re ok

with topping off, each weekend, 

the emptying tank of your contentment, 

as you were. But if this sounds something less 

than what you once imagine living for, 

there’s always the ol’ pivot, the shifting 

of the frame, till whatever ground is gained

becomes interior terrain. It’s an infinitely 

bigger wildness to tend, but when 

it’s not about finishing anymore 

you can at last begin to worship

at the temple of today, venerating 

the local god whose ikon is the neighbor, 

whose delight is sweat-stains 

and the incense of fresh-cut grass 

already rising, calling you to your eternal return.