Mowing the hillside pasture - where
the flowers of Queen Anne's lace
float above the grass, the milkweeds
flare and bee balm, cut, spices
the air, the butterflies light and fly
from bloom to bloom, the hot
sun dazes the sky, the woodthrushes
sound their flutes from the deep shade
of the woods nearby - these iron teeth
chattering along the slope astound
the vole in her low run and bring down
the field sparrow's nest cunningly hung
between two stems, the young long flown.
The mower moves between the beauty
of the half-wild growth and the beauty
of growth reduced, smooth as a lawn,
revealing again the slope shaped of old
by the wearing of water and, later, the wear
of human will, hoof and share and wheel
hastening the rain's work, so that the shape
revealed is the shape of wounds healed,
covered with grass and clover and the blessed
flowers. The mower's work too is beautiful,
granting rest and health to his mind.
He drives the long traverses of the healed
and healing slant. He sweats and gives thanks.
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