The old Yard Machine awaits. Dried out grass fills every groove in its tires. The hood, which snapped off its hinges snagging a low-hanging branch, loosely rests over the motor. One of its blades must surely have bent by now.
As I muster the will to use it, I imagine Dad riding it once more. He makes his precise, concentric ellipses across the yard—just the way he used to.
I start the motor. Reverse the tractor out of the garage. Set it onto the yard and begin—feeling like he’s still here.
fresh clippings
a longing to again hear
his complaints
first published in Haibun Today, December 2017, v.11, n.4!
for dverse Poets Pun Tuesday Poetics. Lillian hosts and calls for poems with the word “groove” in the body of the poem
Frank J. Tassone 
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