A gift,
From the boy who mows the grass

Where are you, under books?
Disappearing into the fictional pages,
Hiding in Eco, searching for the rose
Hiding so far in the labyrinth.

He had to get tests done the giver
It is all about those tests now, or not.

All over the ground, your cousins and siblings at play
Covering the still green grass,
The words as the veins, in your color

Leaves fall like eyes scanning a work
For meaning. You too had painted a picture of me, invisible.
One of many many like the lover’s poem

Silence to his sight, like a moth to a name
And forgiveness illuminates, the light a hammer in the ear
The smallest one.

like music the smell, tastes like tears not the salty taste but a syncopated taste
The rhythm for the green many, not to be lost in the beat he started again
This time in late November to cut to shape what was once undone
will comes to pass, like all the boy who mows the grass

or will the grass grow for him, into the planes of our memories
falling from the planes on the most frozen of days,
patches of blue turning green.

A gift,
From the boy who mows the grass

(The original poem’s visual presentation was lost with Word Press setting. Hope to correct this soon)

Copyright, Christopher Leet 2011

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