Push Mower

Stinky hot but it feels good. Face flush. Heart pulsing in chest. Muscles happily resting after exertion. Mowing the Back 40 with a push mower. It makes me nostalgic for my childhood. Eating avocados and pomegranates off trees in the backyard. Bit of grass out front and back, that my daddy mowed with a push mower. I loved my bedroom of a tiny back porch. The windows green with friendly leaves pressed up close to say hi. My friends. The trees. Bugs. Lady bug walking on the scattered forest of my blond forearm hairs when I was two, maybe three years old. Mesmerized by living delicate beauty. Sitting on the sun-warmed concrete steps, patiently playing with a man bug. Years later others later told me it was called a sow bug. But to me it was a man bug. For lady bugs are red with black dots. This all black segmented shiny bug must be dressed in a tux. Therefore, a man bug. I touched him ever so gently with my fingertip and he’d immediately curl up in a ball. I sat gazing at his segments, his shiny black suit covering his fetal form. Watching watching with all the patience in the world. To glimpse the moment of his trusting, when he unrolls bit by bit. Gets his many feet on the ground, then resumes his walking. Oh, when life was simple and quiet and a preschooler could sit with the sunshine warm on her face, and had the empathy and attention span to wait and watch a frightened bug until it regains trust, opens up, and walks his own path, unmolested.

About this poem

This poem is part of my Solstice solar year poem cycle, where I write a poem a day from June 22, 2019 to June 21, 2020. The poem a day may get posted on a different day than it was written, or several poems might get posted on the same day. And if I choose to submit a poem to a literary journal, I delete it from this blog before doing so. That's my project. I hope it touches your soul and makes you think. And maybe inspires you to write more poems of your own.