[Gail White]

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.