Another quarter.

This scalding season of frost and wind pressed to earth’s face. The polyanthus that I thought were dead bloom yellow and red and purple and white. The lawn loses its scent like a left out pie. The rev and splutter of blades as my little petrol mower rides sticks and cuts the grass like a cigar. I sniff the burn and perfumes. The lopped stems garnish. The worms come out to listen, the birds to eat.