Last Mow
BY TODD DILLARD
Violet beneath the winterberry, neon
green by our leafless maple, flamingo
pink between the shed and where
next week we’ll stack cords of firewood—
it’s the last mow of the year,
and all the eggs we hid too well last Easter
have returned with their plastic cheer.
Brown days like these I remember
the plumbago blue of my mother
wishing me goodnight, the saffron
clap of my father’s hands
when I ripped catfish from Claude’s lake.
Silver of my kids’ baby laughs—
lavender of my wife’s arms—
that merlot knell when Mozart
spilled from my clarinet bell—
it’s all easier to see now my life’s entered
its autumn. I could stop. I could open
each egg, find out what summer’s done
to Goodbars, how time gnaws Milky Ways.
But steam’s rattling the pot’s hi-hat,
the good candles are pumping cardamom into the air,
currant and tobacco whisper from a bottle of Syrah.
The guests are crossing state lines,
only a few dozen miles to go.
And I still have the bagging to do, washing up.
And there are more acres left to mow.
