There is something

About the way that

He traces the yard

Rhythm and thrumming

A frequency of his own

 

In lines of perfection

The way his shoulders

Arching and protruding

Showing every back muscle

His arms flexing

With every move

Dripping with colors

Sweat glazed across

His brow and down his neck

 

 

The freshly cut grass

Smell lingers on his skin

Mixed with his pheromones

What seems like

Redundancy

He pours his blood

Heart and love into

The grounds owned

By another man

With the hope

Of tomorrow