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.