Endless Lawn XXXIV
Here’s one for those of you who have found yourselves on the wrong side of gravity while trimmin’ a hill.
Ugly Twist, Trimming
I set out to do some weed eating
and that’s just exactly what I did
by G-d.
I measured string,
twice my height,
and cut it;
gingerly turning the plastic
so it would catch on itself.
I wound it so that it
wouldn’t choke itself on the
way out of the housing
when I bash the head.
And I’ll warrant I resemble
some grim ancestor
when I do my bashing.
But it’s good string,
tough string.
that's the one I use.
And it’s nearly strong enough
to chew through chain link
by G-d.
So there I was:
sliding down the hill
and cursing.
If you like to cuss,
you haven’t lived until you’ve
slid down a grass-slick hillside,
the still-beating heart
of a Husky two-stroke
throbbing in your hand.
That’s where I do my most
inspired cursing
by G-d.
I collected myself
and tried to focus my thoughts,
but I’ll admit
I was riled up.
Later, with the hill finished,
I fixed my intention:
I was bound to the pattern
by then
by G-d.
I kept it running,
preening the weed-fringed fire pit,
managing the wide fronds
along the swamp’s edge.
Leaving plenty to grow
while the mud
grasped at my boots.
My boots are made for the fen
not the hill.
There, on my way toward the tall pine
in the center of the yard,
before I reached the brown-red blanket,
I swung the whirring head of the machine
toward a clump of grass
by a pile of dusty clippings.
Out from under this pile
wriggled the little sentry,
on his way from one post to the next,
hurrying away from the calamity
I piloted.
Without seeing where his fear
or duty took him,
I proceeded to the tree,
careful not to nick its hide.
For it hides within it the spirits
of two white dogs who were,
and certainly still are,
dear to me
(not to mention the clown).
The turkey’s bones mingle also
with the earth
and roots of that great evergreen.
The tree is the totem of the meadow,
watching over everything
from the hill to the pond.
I went on from there,
around the fence-line and out-building
until the tank ran dry in the corner
where the mysterious stones lie
half-buried in muck,
marking some ancient
homestead or tipple or still.
I carried the machine back up to the house
on my shoulder.
I set out to do some weed eating
and that’s just exactly what I did
by G-d.
T. Evans, November 2023
