Outside, the season’s thick sound 
of mowing: that rising, falling drone 
of combustion, steel, and resistance.

Persistence of green as this half  
of earth turns tilted sunward  
so the grass thrives and rises up.

Countless machines are taking on 
sprawls of lawns. In noise and fumes
they crop it short; they keep it down.

The mower I hear whines, sputters, 
almost stalls. The grass remains 
silent, though it smells moist and lush.

Tonight mowers, damp blades stained, 
will sit cool in the dark while the grass 
endures—healing its cuts and breathless. 

---

Author’s note: I’m used to hearing people mowing grass during the summer, especially if there’s a mild day after several hot ones or a clear day after several rainy ones. A number of years ago I opened a window, and for some reason was really struck by the sound of one person out mowing their grass. It felt good to just stop and listen. I thought about my own experiences cutting grass and ruminated on us humans, our machines, and the living things around us. I had to hand it to grass; it gets cut and cut and cut, but just keeps coming back. In these grim times, I want to think there’s some hope in that.

Matthew Murrey’s the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press, 2019) and the forthcoming collection, Little Joy (Cornerstone Press, 2026). Recent poems are in Roanoke Review, ballast and elsewhere. He was a school librarian for 21 years. His website’s at https://www.matthewmurrey.net/, and he’s on Twitter & Instagram @mytwords.