Husbandry

So it’s come to this: short years ago,
(I don’t know, 30 or 40 perhaps)
We wanted to go play outside,
And scratched ourselves, squirming, bored,
As the grown-ups palavered on and on
About tomatoes, cup-o’-golds, the lawn.
We’d eye the blank screen: what was on?
What were we missing? Afternoons were long.
How could they stand it? We’d never be old.
Yes, it’s come to this: hoisting the bag
From where you crouch now on the grass,
Stuffing sweet mown clumps away,
You notice the fog’s beginning to thin—
Best wait, and water at the end of the day.
High August now. The Better Boys
Come thick and fast. You’re giving them away,
A lightly-noted guilty pleasure.
Perspective rounds the edges of all:
There was a time when Hesiod seemed
The dullest character imaginable.
Poetry was all about flash and passion,
What was this old guy going on about
With his oxen, plows, the nagging Pleiades?
Now you rub your chin when he speaks.
Here on the coast, cranes don’t fly,
But subtle seasons manage to go by,
And it’s come time to pause and confess
You have absorbed their rhythm, long since.
Hoisting the bag, walking toward the fence,
You console yourself with the memory
Of a photograph on a dust jacket:
If this adds up to noon long past,
You’re in good company. You recall
The goddess’ man himself, caught in the act
Of hauling potted plants down the steps
Outside his house, in the sun of Mallorca.
So it goes. There’s no beating back
The flood, nor stepping out of the frame
Despite the dull ache of old advertising.
Almost game time. You empty the bag,
Park green-stained gloves on the toolshed floor,
Glance at your watch, check the fridge for beer,
Remember to leave your shoes by the door.

August 2004