Treasure

My sons mow
on Sundays after church,
because, they tell me,
Sunday is the only day
not filled with things to do,

and so, on Sabbath,
grass grown
until it tufts untidy
in its length gets cropped,
shriven by two earnest boys

who push and aim the clattering
lawn mower
that smells of gasoline
old hay and afternoons
of sweating toil made light by youth,

until the task is done and
silence falls
across a new-made green
of emerald turf
filled with
scent of spring and satisfaction.

But the real prize appears
next day,
when in our sea of green
bright islands blaze out over all
in yellow gold of morning sun...

...who says
dandelions are not treasure?