still don’t know why
after, what, nearly fifty years now?
pushing, riding
the sling blade in circles
around the house to
make it pretty?
make it like Tom’s, Dick’s, Harry’s?
obviously, it’s a deprivation
to the bees, to go from
flowers to flower less
in one, maybe two
twenty-fourths of the day
yet, sweet grass smells,
cool evenings barefoot,
playing cornhole with neighbors,
watching robins pick among blades
somehow, in some way
make it seem
less like murder