(no subject)

[selfdefeatist]

There is a precision to mowing lawns that appeals to me. I enjoy the monotony, tempered only by the occasional make-shift shrapnel of pine cones and small limbs. While mowing, I have the best opportunity for silent contemplation, despite the vocal rage of the machine. It is something you can slip beneath, actually, a constant which prevents distraction. I mowed a stranger's yard yesterday with the aching exactitude that marks most of my actions. Somehow, I lost one of the bolts which keeps the mower handle upright, and so I mowed with just the one, which does change the dynamic somewhat. I suppose I dread the task because it does draw from me a contemplative aspect which often dredges up things I would prefer stayed beneath the water to erode in silence and forgetfulness, nestled in the silt and decaying bodies I've sacrificed to peace of mind.

Everything here looks the same
How varied can be the same
Cement, the aged facades,
The weeds' assault on identical
Sidewalks? Perhaps it's in the
Tilt of the earth, sliding me
Backward toward reunion,
Reminding me how far I've gone.
Maybe we stand straightest where
Gravity's hand is not as strange
Still, in my helter-skelter flight,
My shredding of youthful,
Past weeping laurels
And my touching down here, where
I'd always longed to be
There remains the lingering pit,
The dream killing dread that I will
Return to find a new family's
Emotion caulking the cracks
Of a home I thought would always be there,
Even when I left it.