A normal day astride the John Deere mower,
aimed at a field of the greenest grass;
grass – outnumbering the single green machine
by a factor of thousands – perhaps millions.
One imagines the tiny grass eyes looking up,
like reflected prayers from a world of the oppressed;
though they cover the acres like skin,
they are not respected, but despised.
Today, however, something is different.
The fuel tank held enough gas to bring the machine to life,
but not enough to keep its heart pounding.
Not enough to power the killing blade.
Now the beastmaster must leave the field of battle afoot,
his weed steed left idle among the emerald blades.
The possibilities exist that he will not return –
this machine could be the mute testimony of the victory.
The sun falls below the horizon – grass grows on.
This respite may continue, allowing leaves of grass to reach upward;
The expanding growth may well lead to total recovery.
The dark of night feeds this esprit de corps.
