Ode to my Lawn (by Bert Q. Slushbrow, Sr. , my elderly neighbor from across the street)

As the cool winds of autumn wash down over this land
I know the end is near. Where once you sprouted
from the ground in green abundance, you now
lay faded and still.

No more will I mount my trusty Toro, engine roaring
and guide it gently across your face.

No more will the valiant sounds of Wagner fill
my enormous, oversized headphones as I swoop to do battle with the weeds
and mole crickets that threaten you.

Fondly I recall the warm days of summer
when your growth was lush and thick.
We often met 3, 4, 5 even 6 times a week
as I delicately trimmed you back to a more
aesthetically pleasing 3 1/8 inch height, the sound of my Toro
filling the neighborhood with its throaty roar
day after day after day after day. After day.

My poor neighbors tried their best to match my
display of affection for you. No sooner would my Toro's
voice fill the air than they would come running
(except for that good for nothing across the street)
to shove their brute machines across the brown, ragged
patches that lay in feeble imitation of your emerald glory.
Oh how they must chafe as they see you all dense and green,
each blade trimmed to within less than a millimeter of the next.

It is sad, really. Looking at their ragged turf staggered wildly
about. Some way up here, some way down there with entire
centimeters of height difference separating blade from blade.

Sometimes I imagine you, my closely cropped mass of green,
as an army of soldiers lined shoulder to shoulder, of exact height,
With I as your general leading you goose stepping intto battle as
we assert our dominance over the ragged, undisciplined hordes
of our neighbors (especially that good for nothing across the street).

As I sit on my driveway admiring my handiwork
I am overwhelmed by the majesty of it all.
The absolute lawn dominance that you and I have over the others.
They can only aspire to be half as great as we. Let us wave
and smile from atop the Toro as they drive past on their way to work.

Alas, no more. The Toro is locked in its shed for the season
and your growth has simply become too feeble.

But fear not my love! For I shall return when the cold snows of winter have faded
and the warm sun has touched your face and
we shall be together again. Just you in your emerald gown
and me on my trusty Toro and we shall once again begin
to dance as the sounds of Wagner pour through my enormous, oversized headphones.