We seed and cull, wet and till, lay down
lime and peat to grow what no one eats
but cattle we can’t own but buy in parts.

One works hard to green the earth and store
inside the lungs of grass the magic air
that feeds the growing shoots until they sprout.

Then we mow with careful might and mount
a hammock just above the yard to eye
the simple sense of order mowing makes.

In our silent, private world it’s pointless
to predict how and when it all may end
unlike a watered lawn reborn each Spring.

From a quiet spot we see the sun reward
our work enough to tease us with a dream
that we, too, might live longer than ourselves.