Mowing

I mowed today. After weeks with no rain—I mean NO rain—the grass is downright crunchy. However, there are pesky weeds that insist on rising above the downtrodden grass. So I mowed.

It was difficult to see the stripes of the mowing pattern marking where I had already been. And given the lack of growth, shorn grass was no help. That got me to thinking—there’s almost a metaphor of life in that. Without growth, finding the track of where we have been is difficult.

What can I say. . .mowing is an inherently boring task, so thinking helps pass the time. That’s not to say that I resent mowing—I really don’t. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes anytime I throw myself into a manual task. Plus I reap the benefit of the physical exercise (and then can skip my personal pledge to do a half hour of exercise each day).

A month ago, I wrote a poem about mowing, inspired by another trek back and forth across the yard. Herewith:


Mowing

Heading out to mow
I trace the pattern
Of my long worn habits
Criss crossing then diagonal
Varying nary an inch
Concentric circles round the trees
Reveal faint tracks from former tire treads
Always around—sometimes clockwise
Sometimes counter
Someday I should reverse the pattern
Back to front then side to side
Mercy!—would the task get done
Or would the newness distract
And divert me into new paths?

By Donna F. W.
© July 2006