yard work

I mow the grass not out of conquest,
but obligation — even simple necessity:
if I don’t, our little dog disappears in
the growing greenery that passes for
a lawn. I’m not much of a turf builder.
And so I pull-start the machine and
begin traversing the yard, cutting
patterns as Ella runs ahead, buoyantly
announcing impending doom to the
weeds and daffodils. We both get tired
about halfway through the job; she lays
down on the porch and I keep to my
appointed rounds. She joins me again as
I push the now silent mower back into
its small shed; we turn to walk to the house,
and I see one diligent and determined daffodil
who has managed, magically, to avoid being
cut down by my actions. Her small yellow head
waves as we pass, not taunting as one might
expect, but swaying as if to say the blades
don’t get the last word. Such news is worthy of
a cookie and a nap for both me and the pooch.

Peace,
Milton