by Eric Otto

I am cutting down a summer
of wildflowers. My neighbor gives me a nod,
contrast to his season of scowls

as yellow and white reached
higher and higher toward the encouraging
sun, and I did nothing about it.

He approves the mowing,
has wanted it. I push slowly,
giving the bees time. As each one

departs, I think, see you soon
my friend, and then I snicker
at my neighbor’s endorsement.

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