The steady drone sneaks
In through the patio glass
I look up, washed plate
in hand, still warm
Her blade is at work
hungry for fresh pastures
Leaving a trail of
decapitated dreams in green
Those unruly curls hiding
the missing purple glove
and that red garden fork
slowly recede into
a crew cut, stark
and sensible
Now it’s our turn
Unkempt menfolk
who sullenly huddle
Greying hair and
Growing locks
Wilting already
Under the steely
gaze of those clippers
The lone mower cometh
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