MOWING AT DUSK
Grass pours from the mower's side,glitters in the last light.
There's satisfaction
in small tasks,
drifting in neutral,
the turf reduced
to simple geometry,
the blade cutting
a clean path,
a swath of green,
patterns of surf.
I could drown in this noise
that pours over me;
I glitter in the last light.
Scents of rose and tarragon
hang starry in the night air
where the catcher brushes them.
Fireflies wink on and on,
signals from the shore.
Landlocked in Pennsylvania,
my kitchen light beacons.
I rudder home in the salty dark.
~Barbara Crooker
