I Join the Throngs of Men
Cutting lawns in perfect unison
I join the throngs of men cutting lawns in perfect unison
like a chorus of mechanical praise, a practice as ancient as religion,
passed down through generations from fathers to sons
with sacred batons buried deep within the dirt.
we are people of the earth, no matter how high we build our homes
and barricade ourselves with brick, wood, and stone;
our concrete lives return to this soil, this clay of divine birth.
all men return to this work, whether by desire or obligation.
we tend to the land like prayer, find peace and belonging there
like this is where we've always been, us men,
while the world slips through our calloused, corrupt hands
we still have this piece of land, we still have this piece of American pie;
when all else is consumed by lust, depression, and pride
we have this blessing:
this world we can hold and shape and mold
into our own, each Sunday,
when we rise into the sepia sky
and mow.
I am beginning to rethink this whole manicured lawn tradition. I still mow the general lawned areas, but I'm letting certain parts just grow and seeing what sprouts up. Doing this for the bees and the dragonflies and other creatures that feed on the wild things.
I also see lawn maintenance as one of those things in life we can control. The world may be on fire, and people shouting at each other about politics, and in most cases, there's nothing i can do about it, but i can tend to my lawn, and my flowers, and the little patch of land i call my own.
Thank you for sharing, Micah!
Micah. I love the theme of companion ship your poem suggests. I wish you could clap on Substack. I would give your poem great 👏 applause.