July Mowing \ The Speckled Meadow

Alan:  Having to live elsewhere now, we know that while the old homestead waits patiently, summer doesn’t.

July Mowing

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.