In November, coffee steam obscures <br />the plate glass - <br />and drizzle. <br />I stand at the screen window <br />sipping - longing <br />for the return of my paltry patch of grass. <br /> <br />Winter's war litter is <br />Puddles, mud, and moss and <br />my need to feel the thatcher in my hands. <br />Even boxed in as I am - <br />nine neighbors windows eyes into my plot - <br />eager to enforce the common covenants - <br />I am called from deep roots to cultivate my lands. <br />This need to nurture seeds and grass is bigger than <br />MY little lot. <br /> <br />Now - on a hot april day - <br />leaning on the rake <br />I gaze through sweaty eyes, <br />survey the trifling task, and curse the time <br />I wished the grass would grow again. <br />I Acknowledge Fall nostalgia with chagrin. <br /> <br />Lacey, WA <br />April 09<br /><br />David Abrahams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/first-cut-of-spring/
