I cut the first grass of spring,
trimming tender blades to arbitrary length.

I work the first sweat of season
that beads and rolls down my track of spine.

A week ago, all this was iced with late, wet
April snow, a memory in one day.

Ive played this cycle many times,
even mowing sounds like an old song,

sung by an old man with
combustion-engine voice.

But seasons seem compressed, knotted
by lost recollection, a shorter string of time.

Crabapple blooms, as it does every year,
now blossoms yield to hatching leaves

white petals cast away, dervish in the air,
rain on me like snow.

They want to tell me,
remember, and remember.

03/31/2002

Posted on 03/31/2002
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt