Lawn duty

The riding mower putters to a stop, out of gas
Releasing me from my duties for a moment to sit and think.
The sun beats down in June, escaped out of class.
Home seems but another hole in which to sink.

But now I remember cut grass, fragrant and fresh
The delicate scent of roses my dad so labored for.
The pungent smell of sap from pecans half-rotting flesh
And honeysuckles around the trellace, sweet down to their core.

Sweet tea and lemonade on the porch swing in late summer
Made all the sweat and grime seem like a passing dream.
The vague whiff of a thunderstorm seemed almost menacing
But the fragrance of my childhood ran by like a rushing stream.