Ten thousand  blades of grass per second fall
across my whirring razor growing dull
from cutting through old grass as thick and tall
as that which grows beside the sea.  A hull
is winnowed out . . . (a cozy trail for me).
I push with ease my blessed red machine
which catches in a snap this harvest.  Three
more rows to go;  I fear I may turn mean
from fiery heat and moths now choking out
such sticky, icky air.  I'll catch my breath
before I kill a zillion gnats (no doubt).
The plush of summer bleeds a greening death.

   A little push and pull till all is done;
   until the next time we eat bugs for fun ;-)

    Anne Bryant-Hamon
    © August 25th, 1998