The Cycle

Out my window the grass grows.

Every Tuesday, the lawn people

Come with their mowers and cut

The past week’s growth away.

With finger nails and the dog’s hair

It’s much the same. New growth,

Cut and trim the old away. The cy-

Cle of life is perpetual until aging

Inevitably sticks to every blade,

Every nail. Each and every strand

Of hair will see the day when the

Whistle of Time blows. The clock

Runs out; the fourth quarter comes

To an end—game over. There are

No ties in this game. Rules are

Rules. Slowly, reluctantly, you walk

Off the field of play. There comes a

Time and place, win or lose, even

The star players are forced to retire.

On Tuesdays, a new crew comes

To mow the lawn.

Chris Hanch 5-20-17