First Cut Deep…

The sun finally remembers
where I live—
stretching its fingers across
the sodden green,
that’s grown wild like IT forgot
anyone lives here.

I drag the mower from the shed
like a reluctant old dog—
it growls, sputters,
then dies again
because that’s what we do now,
me and the machine—
start, stop,
pretend we’re still young
and ready.

I add gas like a prayer,
pull the cord with a grunt
I swear echoes down my spine,
and it catches—finally—
a roar for victory. 
Maybe I’ve still got it.

Each pass is a negotiation
between blades and bones,
the damp grass clumps,
resisting, laughing…
in a green hush
beneath the mowers drone.

My knees argue with my back,
my back sends memos to my shoulder—
we're all unionizing
against this labor
but it’s the first sun in weeks
and I can’t let the world
get too wild.

So I mow
and I ache
and I breathe in the smell
of earth and gasoline,
cut crab grass and clover.

When it’s done,
the lawn is nothing special—
a bit rough, a bit proud—
just like me,
holding the silence
like a beer can.