Sweat

It is late in the day,
and the yard is done,
the smell of fresh grass filling the air,
black earth under your fingernails,

and sweat
stains your shirt a darker blue
where it has run down your chest,
dripped from your hair,

hardly handsome, yet
a sign of effort well spent
not for the gaze of others,
but simply because you treasure

the simple beauty of gardens and lawns
well tended, like a woman’s skin
smooth and full of color,
vibrant, full of life

and ever changing.
it does not matter that your shirt
is stained, or that you will never grace
the cover of GQ. You are content

in your quest. Content to slowly tend this garden of love
that once nearly died, and has been revived,
willed to life again.

What a fool they must have thought you,
and perhaps think you still,
when you declared this scorched earth,
salted with venom and pain,

would one day bear sweet flowers,
would one day fill the dusk air with perfume,
as the sweat on your shirt drys,
and you relax, a glass of wine in your hand,

reborn in the work,
in creating love
anew.

About this poem

I cut the grass yesterday, on one of the few dry afternoons we’ve had for weeks here in Vermont. And I planted some flowers that have lived in pots off my back step for way too long. It was hot, humid and despite the fact that my yard is small, I was dripping by the time I was done.

This was a duplex when I first bought it, and the owners had no use for anything resembling flowers and shrubs. It was nearly barren. Now, four years later, and flowers bloom all summer long. And I continue to plant more.

Life and love is like that sometimes. Neglected, abandoned, left to slowly die, we can bring it back, but only with work, persistence, and belief that it’s all worth it.

And it is.

Tom