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.

I’ve 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