Such an abundance of green, I used
to think, passing that corner lot, daily
But the man was taken from his lawn
two weeks ago, now, and the grass grows
uncut and unruly. We are in gold time,
now, gold season. Light abundant
in its waning glory. A whole field
of children running, kicking. Dive
and fall. Voices meld with owl
and hawk, the last peepers. I am
the partially rusted crank of a bicycle
that barely rattles. I am the skill
you pretend will come back. Memory
grows in me like that uncut grass
will, one season later. If I take the high
path above the river who will I see, fear?
Will ticks unstick from tall grass, attach
to my churning legs? Tick tick tick
the bicycle is singing, now. Everything ends
the grasshoppers sing and the sunset-bound
birds, and the man in some cell, taken
from my street while I walked in sun
at the farmer’s market.
