I stand at the window and peer out
at the yard through the spring storm.
I can almost feel the grass growing as it
soaks in the bonanza of moisture.
This saddens me, for soon the lawn
will be high, and I will have no choice
but to drag out the mower and begin the
annual chore of the weekly cutting.
I don’t join my neighbors in spending
the first warm afternoon of the year in lawn
labor, eagerly walking behind that damned noisy
machine. I wait until there is no putting it off.
I wait until guilt takes over when I look at the
neighbor’s landscaping. I wait until they look
at mine and shake their heads.
As a kid I used to cut lawns for money. I cut
as many in a weekend as I could just to get
the cash. Now I would gladly pay someone else
to do the walking back and forth across the grass,
to do the trimming and edging, too. If only I could
find someone willing to do it on the weekend when
I am home to unlock the back gate and let the dogs in.
I’m not lazy, but I can almost feel the energy
drain from me each time I pull that starter
cord, feel the thrill of summer wasting away
with every pass across the yard, feel the will
to live fade with every over-heated step. I wait
and look forward to early October, the change
of the leaves, the death of the garden, the end
of fishing season and the start of hunting season,
and most of all, the last cutting of the season.