Tall grass gone to seed dances with breeze,
its final sways, a lively tawn in cloudless sky.
A small engine revs, announcing last call,
while bluebirds and dragonflies wait.
Its final sways, a lively tawn in cloudless sky;
still surprised at the length of its reprieve, is
content with there being no standing tomorrow.
A small engine revs, announcing last call
to scurry as the micro-forest falls.
Green aerosol, grass chips fly; patrons flee
while bluebirds and dragonflies wait;
there are persistent mouths to feed
on this windy, beautiful summery day.
Three weeks or so ago I ran over something in the field near the boat that sheared the belt on the rider. The usual place ended pickup and delivery last year when covid started as their 80-year-old pickup and delivery man was at risk. This meant calling around to the usual suspects. Both places had waiting lists of 60 or so. This sent me calling to a different place, which ended up being a blessing, as they picked it up the next day and got it back to me a couple of days ago. By then the unmowed part of the field had grown quite tall. This poem is about that.
image: “Grass Meets Sky,” by J. Cianelli