I fired up the mower
although it was about to rain—
a chill late September afternoon,
wild flowers re-seeding themselves
in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix.
To be attached to things is illusion,
yet I’m attached to things.
Cold, clouds, wind, color— the sky
is what the brush-cutter wants to cut,
but again the sky is spared.
One of two things can happen:
either the noisy machine dissolves in the dusk
and the dusk takes refuge in the steady rain,
or the meadow wakes shorn of its flowers.
Believing is different than understanding.