Ode To September and Saturday and Grass

Grass on my sandals!
The joy of field grass,
Fine, hay-colored playing-field grass
That seemed like a life I’d left behind,
But, oh, I didn’t!
Papery-brittle, inch-long,
Parched and airy, yet
Clinging strong to my shoes at the rugby pitch
While I fill water bottles
And attempt pictures of the ruck
And lend ice packs, not for drinks
But for knees –
Every team, heaven help them,
Needs a mom.
Clapping at the tackle, then realizing
Play doesn’t stop at the tackle. Oh.
Odd, that.
Humid rain soup and metal bleachers.
A fan section of six – us –
Buzzed with the Saturday urgency of other games
To keep up with too,
And the countering feel of solid solemnity,
Sabbath coming,
But sweet lull right now in the hay-colored air.
We’ll take home half the field
On our shoes.

September is field grass.




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