Fresh Grass

Fresh Grass

Barefoot in the pendulum dream world
of my backyard swing,
palms blistered from perfecting
the push and pull of the chains,
I’ve been watching my father for hours,
memorizing how he levels and edges the lawn:
fashioning scattered leaves and dandelion
into plaid pattern.

Below me, Dad saved the last section,
making a game of momentum
and gravity.
I fly higher to give more time
and to receive acclaim.
Smiles are shared for the time spent,
bag is emptied,
air silenced from noise,
and mower tugged to shed.

The shade approaches.
Satisfied and sunburned,
I leap onto the cool and prickly grass
feeling it curl between dirty toes.


All Right Reserved: Elizabeth B. Wilson