The city park aside my home,
a quiet suburban street –
The city workers gather
and standing below their feet.   
A dried manicured lawn,
that they mowed just last week. 
Small brown sprouts of grass
that hadn’t reached their peak.

Gas-powered equipment
which they use to mow, 
The clippings from their blades, 
none of which to show.
In one week since last, 
the grass it didn’t grow. 
Yet the men appear faithfully,
across the field they mow.

My thoughts easily scramble, 
disturbed by the blast- 
of a loud leaf blowers motor
turns my thoughts aghast.
I pray they find their blunder, 
and the season soon will pass, 
The city workers and noise of men, 
mowing over dead grass.