Still…I feel the spongy dead-stop of my swing
of blade against the harden broom-sedge tuft.
Higher, I reasoned, taking another swipe
with a sling-blade taller than my six years.
Golden grass flowed with the blow yielding only
dry flotsam with straw scented disappointment.
•
So strange….memories lingering half-centuries;
others just a day, a moment, or never really made.
My first remembered ambition: to lay low
that field, expansive then, for no particular reason
other than to see it felled…..to smell accomplishment.
Stubborn grasses or allergies brought tears
and abandonment of blade and pride; both
flung down hard…..then dreams for years self-thwarted.
•
Now….walking aware, overstepping briars,
through fields of desiccated, swishing grasses;
hand, palm down flat, I caress resilient sedge tops.
My blade, bright with sharpen glints, shouldered.
I’m ready to swing with practiced ease but
only for purpose and with reverence for grasses.
Belated Words 
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