Mowed

Now they do not write down thoughts
with toes
on the green lawn
listening to
the confluence of muffled syllables
in the air

The smell of mowed lawns
sits in the corridor

Now they do not watch the
shades of green
the lawn wears through each hour

'The night is a firefly
You cannot catch up with it
The day is a shadow
You cannot blow it away'

Now they do not wet their palms
when the skies rain down stars
stars which do not dry up
in warm thoughts

Now they do not notice
cringed noses
crumpled noises
'cause now they cannot

The smell of mowed lawns returns
every now & then
to the corridor

They sometimes wonder
on rainy noons
when feet are still or running -

would it smell as bad
if the sky were mowed?