Mowing with Mankind

As I mow this sprawling lawn
I feel a resonance with generations
of mankind before,
sent to tend and tame this garden.

As if I, too, am one with
the pioneers,
the pilgrims,
yea, all the progenitors
who took a blade in hand
to provide a shave and a haircut,
as it were,
to a sometimes 2-bit spot of earth
in an attempt to obtain a yield of useful fruit
through the wielding of assorted tools,

an attempt, sometimes, as vain as mine
usually is to stay a step ahead
of nature's processes
and my own nature's tendancy
to be persuaded more by the
length of my yawn
than the growth of my lawn.

Mow-etry

For some reason
whenever I mow the lawn,
I want to write poetry,

specifically about the act of mowing,
festooned with layers of infinite symbolism
as the act is.

I know,
I know -
mowing is such a manly act
and poetry
generally isn't,
though there is no paucity of male poets.

But still,
I want to write a book of poetry
called Mow-etry
in which I expatiate the subject.

So stay tuned.