Fixing the Mower
Sitting on the pavement
Still warm from the day
The little invisible stones
Can be felt.
My diagnosis of the mower’s
Transmission problem
Is such a beckoning concept.
The new parts,
Not yet worn,
Wait,
Eager to be substituted.
The birds and squirrels
Are flitting and hopping about
In the gathering absence of light.
Together
We accelerate our thoughts
And set our sinews flexing
In the gracious coolness
That floods out
From the dark places
Under the tangle beneath pines
And in the leaf detritus
Behind the cluttered garage
And wave farewell
To the departing sun.
albi