Sunday afternoon unfurls,
a languid stretch across quiet suburbia,
where the hours soften into the gentle hum
of a lawnmower next door—
its steady rumble slicing through
the whisper of elm leaves overhead.

From my perch by the window,
I watch a solitary cloud meander
across an expanse of unblemished blue,
the sun a silent witness to this ordinary calm.

The air carries the scent of fresh cut grass,
sharp and green, a vivid stroke
against the canvas of a lazy day.

The rhythmic drone blends with distant laughter,
a family gathers, their voices a soft echo
under the sunlit canopy of their backyard.

Pages of my book flutter in the breeze,
each word a weightless dance,
yet my thoughts drift to the even trim of the lawn,
how it divides the earth, methodically—
a declaration of order among wild, growing things.

Life’s simple acts, a mower’s path,
the crisp lines it leaves behind,
a testament to the Sunday chore,
the quiet pride in tended blades.

And in this small, shared corner of the world,
where boundaries are marked by fences
yet crossed by the day-to-day of living,
I find a peaceful coexistence—
the sound, a steady pulse beneath the sky’s vast dome.

So, with each pass of the neighbor’s mower,
and every turn of my page,
we keep the cadence of an ordinary afternoon,
finding solace in the trim of green,
and the slow turning of hours,
on this gentle, sun-soaked Sunday.