Snip, snip Went the shears As he bent over each blade That dared to stretch Across concrete footpaths
Meticulous Focused Flexible He was a constant
In the Fall The great cattle roundup Beef replaced By golden red foliole Lovingly collected In giant black plastic cans Placed strategically Across the lawn
And under the dog day sun Sailing From the edge of his world And back again He would leave a wake Of congruent uniformity The green carpet That welcomed all
Among the Victorian, Moorish And Hollywood Bungalows The red brick Georgian Was a prize But in his yard The nod to four kings Took second stage Huddled closely for warmth Hill’s Angels assembled Every year
Roger’s entire world
Keeping watch through the season With names like Devin, Kyle and Abigail They stood merrily Silent carols Seeming to hang in the breezes While backdropped By festive colors That wrapped themselves Around the manor
But one year The brilliance Running the length of the eaves Was absent And the Angels No longer emassed With Faces frozen In festive chorus Now Replaced by dark windows Loneliness
When spring arrived The blades Found new freedom As they crept Over curbs and cobblestones His world was crumbling The slow rearranging Undoing Of the space That exists between One second and the next
The linear narrative That fast tracks us all Into the otherworld Had captured him
Under the canopy of falling leaves He existed Building families of angels Cutting blades of grass And hand laying red bricks For only a few brief seasons Creating this sanctuary
Now from a car Emerging with assistance Slowly Tennis balls dulled the click Of his disability Placing Deliberate, pensive steps Leading to the entrance Of his world The man who was king Now a bag of ruins