Grass Sighs

Yet another poem on finding beauty in broken things

Photo by Artur Zhadan on Unsplash

Grass Sighs

Outside, someone
is mowing the grass,
and the scent wafting in
through the windows
is intoxicating. I am heady
with the grass’s destruction. Blades
are shred by their sharper namesake.
Heavy wheels crush
both the rooted and the severed.
I am overcome
with their sighs.

All the while, I
inhale. Does the grass smell
this good when it’s whole
and its growth is unfettered? 
Would I find such pleasure
if I sent my face to meet the green?
Or is this scent only possible
because something has been
broken? Perhaps some
beauty can only be seen
when the cracks are big enough
to reveal what lies beneath.

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WEEKEND POTPOURRI:

• Currently on repeat:

• A(nother) poem:

CUT GRASS

By Philip Larkin

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne’s lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer’s pace.