First Cut Of Spring
In November, coffee steam obscures
by David Abrahams
the plate glass -
I stand at the screen window
sipping - longing
for the return of my paltry patch of grass.
Winter's war litter is
Puddles, mud, and moss and
my need to feel the thatcher in my hands.
Even boxed in as I am -
nine neighbors windows eyes into my plot -
eager to enforce the common covenants -
I am called from deep roots to cultivate my lands.
This need to nurture seeds and grass is bigger than
MY little lot.
Now - on a hot april day -
leaning on the rake
I gaze through sweaty eyes,
survey the trifling task, and curse the time
I wished the grass would grow again.
I Acknowledge Fall nostalgia with chagrin.