You May Mow

The late May lawn is long
seemingly up to the Widow Wyile’s knees 

There are bursts of forget-me-not blue
            little lakes amid the green
the deep violet current of Charlie creeping along
       and surfing carpets of white violets too
the dainty golden-green yellow-red knobbles of wild sorrel
            rapids of remarkable rustic texture 

bobbing sunny dandelions are now few
as their silver globe-headed host stand
            alert and swaying
awaiting the perfect moment
                        when the next zephyr
  will lift their seeds
to gently parachute
            glide and sail along 

and all the while
about and along the jagged
 perimeter of garden beds
   the sensitive ferns
a forest of fans
     bushed out horsetail
  among them
the oregano already mounded
while to the east the blackberry brambles
beset with crafty clawing thorns that cling
await an epic verse of their very own
begun and unfinished
as is the wavering line of their advance 

in the midst of all this and more
the pear tree is pleased with itself
a tall mast left unhindered sprung up into the sky
these past two years
                        a flowering antenna
pulling messages from the firmament
            sending earth signals high 

The view of her wild front meadow
  paradoxical  lawn
is lush and variegated
                        yet
as the Widow Wyile prepares
to Wander Mow
                        these words only
            will be left
to stand                     
untouched