I had come to talk, but you refused,
instead choosing to mow the lawn
an activity you had so often and
so vehemently scorned.

All the struggles in our relationship
could have been measured
by the stripes I made on that lawn.
it became the constant
in your frequent absence.

The whirring blades of the mower
driving in endless repetition
cutting vertical slashes deep into the green.
An exorcism of anger

Yet today, with one vicious pull,
you are cranking the old motor to life
disturbing the Sunday harmony
with its cacophonous clattering;

furiously pacing this way and that,
first following the old paths
then breaking loose from the rectangular,
circling the trees in different aspects,
creating different continents;

afterwards stomping across flower beds
to fling fine cuttings down
on the rancid decomposing heap,
where my sunflowers once grew.

In that moment you are the embodiment
of Sisyphus pushing his boulder
up the eternal mountain and despite myself
I smile and leave again.