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.