Underfoot

Such tiny specks of life

beige and moist

hardly bigger than my pinky nail.

They fight their way

with such determination

through the tall grass.

These same weensy frogs

in the spring PEEP PEEP PEEP

so loudly in their hundreds

that we cover our ears and

race past the vernal pond,

buffeted by their chorus.

But now in autumn

they are solitary and fierce,

flinging themselves away

as I    slowly     slowly     slowly   

mow the meadow.

Why don’t you get yourself a riding mower?

Why don’t you let me bring down the tractor?

Why don’t you hire a (heaven forbid) lawn service?

I say

this is why.