Mowing Days
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