Mowing

Trevor Moffa

There’s a shine off long grass 
Cut grass lacks, long enough 
To twist and bend sunward, 
To bounce light from every edge 
Of every blade, lost 
In the drying cover of clippings, 
Each lined lawn a light out, 
A ghost of mirrors and motion. 

Weeds, waxy weeds, in needed 
Shades and textures bared, 
To hollow stems, to begin 
Again, beneath the equalizing blade 
Sharpened, lowered, rotating, 
Advancing on anything 
Tall enough to sway,  

To hide the lives of mice,  
The fallen seeds, 
The infinite bugs 
On infinite blades 
Overgrowing, undefining 
The property lines, 

Greening fence feet 
And shooting for the open 
Diamonds in the chain link 
Horizon, outside the orbit 
Of the seasoned blade. 

The cut grass left to sun-cure 
To dull straw and scatter, 
Each lonely blade memory blown 
From something whole and bright, 

Lustrous and home, surrendered 
To the agency of the wind, 
To wherever cut grass goes. 

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Author’s Note: It's always a good time to reconsider man's dominion over anything. The need to maintain a lawn feels antiquated, not to mention the things we could do if we didn't spend an hour mowing an acre every second or third week. And someone had to speak for the hard to reach patches of grass that look almost wild against the fence/house/mailbox by the middle of summer. I've known people to grow with the renegade purpose of grass at the edge of a yard. It's inspiring.

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Trevor Moffa is a poet and former coal miner, park ranger, bookseller, and button pusher from Pittsburgh, PA. His poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in 3Elements Review, Stoneboat, Sampsonia Way Magazine, Nimrod International Journal, and Shambles.