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.