Fresh-Cut Grass
July 25 2010


The smell of fresh-cut grass
in the afternoon,
the longed for coolness
of evening shadows.

The 2-stroke mower
that stinks of gas,
the slap of mosquitoes
stirred-up from grass,
where they lurk
in cool torpor.
And the rusty blade
cutting a light green swath,
one wheel, a little wobbly.
As the injured tips
are left to scorch.

In humid summers
thunderstorms come
this time of day.
Furious clouds
spewing out of clear blue sky,
like a coal-fired foundry
pumping smoke.

Then dead calm,
before the wind whips up
the sturm und drang.
Like holding your breath
or something momentous impending,
the air is uncertain, electric
a green luminescence
infusing all.

The intoxicating scent
of fresh-cut grass.
The verdant lawn
almost radioactive.
And a rain
of cool sweet water
about to pour down;
like a healing emollient
soak the earth.