Faye Sizemore

THE INHERITANCE

The voice of this mower
sang a song of new cut grass
but the old man knew
it could never last
His hair was like snowy cotton
and his skin looked like leather
that has been stained in the rain…
an old hat on his head… and arthritis pain
On his feet were shoes
with laces askew
and soles about to wear through
He wore a stained tee shirt
and shorts that used to be jeans
with holes in the knees
He pushed the mower back
and forth between the trees
working in the morning breeze
A few more rows and he would be done
… beating the heat of the midday sun
Everyone else had all gone
… died or just moved away
so this chore fell to him
every other Saturday
Just a few weeds now to clip
about the old folks’ headstone
then he would take his goodbyes
and be on his way home