As a ten-year-old I never
thought I’d do this. 
The seasons of jerking
the mower’s rope, grunting
with open palms against the steel;
cursing the growth of it.

But here I am, staring
at this belly of dust: dry,
cracked, almost the color
of flour; begging for growth
like the mother of a bald baby.

So I do the necessary--
make the trips to True Value:
fertilizer, rake, hose, and
sprinkler.

Mine isn’t the best--
only $4.99-- but vibrant,
spinning on a steel spike,
graceful like a ballerina.

With a little adjustment she shoots
and retracts, shoots
and retracts-- ticking like
a wasp in a web.

As I handle the spitting faucet
at dusk, she lunges and drops
a rippled kiss at the unseen growth
that I’ll soon learn to curse.