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Why I Never Rake the Lawn



The solid wood of the handle

Chapped my palms



As I breathed the deep soul



Of falls initiation to the living.



The lawn a thick carpet



Of muddy browns, burnt reds, and dull orange.



My father sent me out



With rake in hand to



Fight the never-ending battle



Beneath the crispness of



An October sky.



I remember gazing at the perfect



Lawns of our neighbors



Whose carpet was a rich green



And with a huff of frosty breathe



Threw down the implement of



Thoughtless human destruction.



Desiring something unique to



Treasure alone in the world



A lawn that resembled the beauty



Of a Persian rug where no two threads



Looked exactly alike.



I marched triumphantly back inside



To tell my Daddy of my plans



But five swift moments later



I returned to my Persian carpet with



My bottom stinging from his hands.



I learned for sure that day



Little girls don’t get to choose



The colors of their world.



But certainly I knew that



I would never send my own



Daughter out to drain the



Rainbow of its color.