Relenting, the rain left a midnight chill and a cloudless night from my windowsill where, telling a story both simple and vast the droplets and moon made stars on the glass.
I found a slasher, rusted bad;
I scrubbed with resolution.
With stone I sharpened up the blade,
then swung it with volution.
I found that even with the tool
as fresh and sharp as ever,
to cut the grass was slow and grueled
my body with its tether.
I found a lesson hidden there:
that work has, from the ancients,
been blazing trails and felt unfair
for progress comes with patience.