Smell it?
Lush scent of timothy grass,
Crushed by wheels,
Rent by blades,
Cradled by the evening breeze.
Wafting sweet as maple to my summer porch.
Feel it?
Cool between bare toes scrunching,
Prickly against smooth cheek pressed earthward,
Soft as down against a tired back resting.
Part comes home on clothes and hair,
Scattering the carpet with hints of delight.
See it?
Long swathes of dark green,
Framed by slender rows of wheel marks,
Sentineled by crow and robin
Pecking after worm and seed.
Glowing with the day’s warmth
As it radiates at twilight.
Hear it?
Oh yes. It grows so fast.
Listen. Hear it?
A week, no more, and the call will come again.
New mown. New mown.
Sweeter than the street vendor’s “Straaaw-Berries!”
Frontpage
© Marsha Wilson 2003
