The Grass Can Wait
Sitting in my Lazy Boy
cold drink beading the glass,
notebook in hand,
a poem in my head.
Outside, the Georgia summer blaze,
hazy, hot, and humid,
the Zoysia sod, a verdant carpet
luxuriates, and thrives, beneath the sun.
With empty tank and bag,
the hungry mower waits to graze the grass.
Meanwhile, my images take root
and grow toward the light of consciousness.
Words and lines sprout
beneath the gleaning pen,
planted in rows across the page.
The choice to mow or write,
dilemma to resolve,
to harvest grass or poems:
the grass can wait.
Another good gray poet
contemplating spears of grass,
retired and loafing at my ease,
I watch the seasons ebb and flow
through changing states, the rise and fall of grass
that falls and springs
beneath my boot soles.
As inspirations spring,
turn into poems across the years,
vegetation sprouts, life from life.
I contemplate the empty page
and my own passing days.
I know that, outside, the grass grows.
Meanwhile, the grass can wait.
Robert C. Covel
3 September 2012
