Alan: Having to live elsewhere now, we know that while the old homestead waits patiently, summer doesn’t.
Jerry Crowther cut off his toes, mowing.
Just on one foot, and only four –
and not the big one, so that’s alright.
And Bruce Jones is riding his mower down the County Road
toward Route 1 and the school.
He’s wearing shorts and no shirt,
looking a little pink
and not so fit as when he was in the Guard.
And Neil’s mowing around the house.
Around and around. Such a clatter and rattle!
Should I close the windows, despite the heat?
Would that even dull the noise?
No one’s mowing at home. No one’s there.
The grass grows tall, tall, tall.
The wind lays it; it is laid where something has trampled through.
It’s headed up and wet and full of slugs and snails.
If I were there, I could scythe it.
If I were there all day every day
I could work up a sweat scything in the early morning
and stop when the sun gets high and the stems toughen.
I could sit in the shade of the crab apple
with a cold drink, with iced coffee.
I’d get you one too and we could sit there together
listening to the vireos,
watching the hummingbirds,
if you were there.
Nancy: Purple-y blue, pinky red, orange, yellow – eighty years ago that’s what I had in my crayon box.
The Speckled Meadow
July woke up with a yellow crayon
in each hand, and a big green grin.
Nothing subtle: blue sky,
blue bay, green scribbled in between,
day’s eye, hawkweed, buttercup,
and a yellow bird in the speckled meadow.