He's like grass in October
   when the mower says,
   let it go,
   the frost will mow it,
   it ain't worth the work.

So the mower ignores it
   and it grows tall and strong and tough to uproot
   rolling and billowing and whispering in the breeze
      and never breaks
   it ain't a lawn
   it's wild and waving and seeding
      like real grass
      under cool-gray clouds
      and icy staring stars
      and the cold blue of a sky with it's heat gathered in the sun.

And then the frost mows it,
   settling hard and white and fragrant
   on a night filled with
   cool and moon and still
   and grasses turn hard and crackly and November brown,
   whispering still, but whispering sharp
   long and matted among its own
   covering seeds
   for another spring
   and the struggle to wear down the mower.