MOWER

What gauzy clouds the mind retrieves

From those who played among its leaves,

 

What rustling trees, what limpid air,

For us who in its ends repair

 

To pastel sun and gauzy cloud

On islands which our lives enshroud

 

With coral greens and growing seas

That weave from youth infinities,

 

The smell of grass beneath the blade

Of palm trees’ ancient cut-glass shade,

 

To find the ocean’s from our own

Distant childhood summers mown.

 

Lanikai

November 4th, 2013