Kara was out mowing the circle today.   It’s a large swath of grass and she was using a push mower.  Not the kind you pull-start and push rather than ride, but a reel mower, the kind with a round blade that goes shwsh-shwsh-shwsh-shwsh through the long grass and usually gets stuck every 10 or 12 feet.  That kind.  She was mowing as I was glancing, musing rather, out the upper office window of our house, wishing I felt better, wishing I had the energy to join her, the way I would on a non-hormonal day.

The truth is, I love push-mowing.  I love the sound it makes and the hand-labor.  I love its green-eco classification and the fact I can push it without putting fossil fuels into the air.  It is silent, relatively silent.  It represents a simpler time and a more communal one.

Kara is one of the neatest people I have met.  She is my friend Margaret’s daughter and for her, Margaret, I post today’s poem: Spring and Fall by G.M. Hopkins.

Spring and Fall

To a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves, líke the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Áh! ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

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