In between the rains today,
I had to mow the meadow moist
and choked the blades some fourteen times
with grass and clover as thick as cheese.
And when I clawed the terminating turf
free of the discharge port
and carried the double handful,
steaming to the mulch pile,
the juices ran between my fingers
like hot, green wine.
And now my soggy knees, my curses
and my misery are all beside the point;
that nothing in my universe smells
anywhere as good
as moist, mown meadow.
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