That Fresh-Cut Grass Smell

The sound of a lawn mower
always takes me back
there to that place
where Mother is still young
and my brother and I even younger.
Grass stains on our pants and
Mother’s hands. Her face
sweating and watering
the lawn. I picture us
in that grass smiling, but
the grass is always growing,
and sometimes I wonder
if maybe a jungle
would have kept us all younger.

(Day 1 poem for NaPoWriMo)

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