First Cut Of Spring

In November, coffee steam obscures
the plate glass -
and drizzle.
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.

Lacey, WA
April 09

by David Abrahams

Other poems of ABRAHAMS (13)

Comments (2)

I am called from deep roots to cultivate my lands. This need to nurture seeds and grass is bigger than MY little lot. Love of labour is gardener/farmer's pride. Look at the lusious green lawn and the freshness it brings to the eyes of heart after the first cut of spring.
IT WILL GROW back just before winter. you're running late this year. thanks for sharing. md