An old Haitian man stooping on the lawn
in nylon shorts, black socks, and straw brim hat,
reaches for errant weeds hiding from the dawn
as black licorice legs swayed with his gait.
June's sun speckled through his mango grove
as plump globes of sweat watered the ground.
Uprooted rests tossed on to shaded cove
his deflating guts emits a groaning sound.
The weeds will grow back. It's a losing fight
that no one could ever possibly win
yet there he stoops, in the scorching sunlight
re-enacting the ancient rites of men.
Swooping down the yard, a petty pink crane
as Old Man and bird pick from the grass grain.
- By Aurin Squire
in nylon shorts, black socks, and straw brim hat,
reaches for errant weeds hiding from the dawn
as black licorice legs swayed with his gait.
June's sun speckled through his mango grove
as plump globes of sweat watered the ground.
Uprooted rests tossed on to shaded cove
his deflating guts emits a groaning sound.
The weeds will grow back. It's a losing fight
that no one could ever possibly win
yet there he stoops, in the scorching sunlight
re-enacting the ancient rites of men.
Swooping down the yard, a petty pink crane
as Old Man and bird pick from the grass grain.
- By Aurin Squire
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