When I was young and full of mockery

And played whole days by old Jane Frances’ gate

My Grandpa’s visits brought this gift of fate

That he, unasked, would cut the grass for me.

With a bound and a bang I’d scamper off

From near that patch of many-rooted ground

As quickly as I heard the mower sound

For fear some neighbor catch me out and scoff.

The northern summer common seemed and rare

Its gold and green flung widely in the sun

And by that summer’s ebb I was as grown

As any sapling in the grass-sweet air.

But he, with shirtsleeves rolled up to the bicep,

Would cut each narrow strip and round each root

Guide the machine with steady hand and foot.

At last, the job complete, he’d sweep the high step.

Then in the final quiet I’d arrive

Cooled and gladdened, expecting without fail

To see the grass cut, bundled, and as well

To find his car no longer blocked the drive.