Mowing

The mowed lawn row by row diminishes the uncut. Topheavy grass hangs over trimmed. The borders between them turn by turn shift. Something catches my eye as I pause, the sight of an inner landscape holds me still. The siren whines in the street and whirls away. I am secure in this moment's moment, this proof of peace sounding deep and steady on my pulses. Machine and mind rest in the depths of the seen beyond mixed and changing facts of surfaces to the clarity where act and effort have their luminous origin. What I am given and possess, what cannot be photographed, what resists the skill and patience of speech extends perfection to the last line of my land.

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