Mower

The morning mower
runs back and forth,
leaving deep furrows
in every brow.
I only hope
he knows his place,
and stays within
his bounds, somehow.
So intent is he
upon his task,
he sees every
blade of grass.
And for all our sakes,
I trust he never
makes mistakes,
cutting too close.
waking those
who sleep so still,
beneath each curve
and rolling hill.
I think I hear him
coming now.

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