Poetry

Mower’s Song

Mower’s Song   The boy who mows my yard thinks that he once was I. He pushes pretty hard under the prairie sky. He has no belching motor or right-hand discharge chute, no madly whirring rotor, and he’s no longer cute.   Just a front-mounted reel geared to a rubber wheel, and that is how the grass made on the Lord’s Third Day will fall as fragrant hay until I too shall pass.   Tim Murphy

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