Ode to the Reel Mower

When you stop pushing
it stops exactly there
absorbing the grace
of cut-grass silence.

It always starts. It never runs
out of gas. It does not
shoot your eye out
with a rock or glass shard.

It runs on dew and pollen
and sweat. It has never
woken one sleeping person.
It is never new and improved.

Grass falls gentle
onto itself like pages
of a favorite book.

If the blades need sharpening
a 150-year-old man with a large stone
in a damp basement will send up
faint sparks, accept no payment.

At night it trims
the moon’s beard.

“Ode to the Reel Mower”
By Jim Daniels


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Filed under Yellow poetry (enlightening)

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