Cut

I’ve yet to mow the yard; the fescue’s tall
Kentucky bluegrass stalks are headed out.
I watch the Scissor-tail suspend and stall
above a swarm of flies, attack and rout
them, wing back to her nest and feed her young.
The next few days are hot they say, no chance
of thunderstorms or rain—a big one sprung
last Sunday, soaked the yard. There’s no romance
in clouds bewitched and hanging low backbit
by shining sun’s insistent glow and sheen.
There’s no romance absent your flesh; the split
of atoms I can’t catch collide, careen.
You are a movie, frames shot long ago,
yet there’s no splendor in the grass to mow.





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Charles (Charlie) Southerland lives on his farm in North-Central Arkansas where he bales hay, mills lumber, hunts and fishes. When he has time, he writes poetry on just about every subject. He is published in Trinacria, The Rotary Dial, First Things, The Road Not Taken and other journals. He has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize and is a finalist in the 2015 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Contest. He likes to write sonnets, villanelles and sapphics.