I will not string up the lawnmower: A poem 

There is a vanguard of spirits when I’m wired 

to the futile hard of life, and feeling very tired  

The buttons on my veins can offset the blues 

My feet are steel when there are stones in my shoes 

This lesson is a blessing at each rousing dawn 

like a fossil that rustles out, and is, then, reborn 

I can even count a million stars, like a handful of petals 

I can even see rainbows shining in invisible daffodils 

At times, in impatience, when I want to bite the apple 

I pause to think: Can I forsake God’s promised staple? 

All these short-lived lures of goods can well alight 

in someone else’s backyard, not my elevator’s flight 

Faith is in not abandoning fated causes to the sewer 

Hope is in believing there is a rope to an elusive flower 

Courage is a badge of honour not cornered by waiver 

The weeds are many, but I won’t string up the lawnmower