"It was no longer beans that I hoed,
nor I that hoed beans . . . "
Henry David Thoreau
When you first thread the thin cord
between your trembling fingers and wrap your hand
around the black plastic grip,
when you first set your tentative foot
against the dull red of the housing
and steady yourself against the solid earth,
when you first circle your fist
around the safety bar and ease it toward your own silent self,
when you first rear back,
a strong smooth pull,
not an embarrassing yank,
but a firm, steady, confident pull,
and when the engine first roars into life,
you will not know you have just
stepped into prayer.
All you will know is the grass is long,
your time is short
and you have things to do—
but if you surrender to the roar of the mower,
if you allow the great sparkling wave of it
to rise above and about you, to lift you into itself,
to encase you in its clear crystal shell,
you will find yourself suddenly
alone
with nothing
but the thrust of your legs,
the press of your arms,
the silence of your soul,
and the sweet smell of grass.
Your first cuts will stretch across the grass
like bright beacons, clear decisions
about which you have no doubt—
but soon the cuts will seem more complex
sharp curves around the corners of flowered beds,
tiny slants and little forward nudges into hidden places
behind the spread of mint or ivy.
And yet the long straight strides will always return.
Part of a pattern where there was no pattern,
you will lay long parallel lines across the confusion of a life
too long unexamined.
Lost in the roar of your mower
you will hear only
the music of sun as it spills about your shoulders,
feel only
the spirit of grass rising into your heart,
seek only
another step into the blinding beauty of this one bright day.
This poem appears in House of Mirrors and in Where There Was No Pattern
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