From where you sit at the table
playing hearts, you glance across the street
at the man on the riding mower.
You’re unaware you’re drinking in
a profusion of hues and believe
you’re focused only on the game
at hand, or on the cool whirl
of the ceiling fan. Outside,
the world is thrown wide
with mad summer, the mower red,
the man riding it, his white cap,
the bill pulled low.
With each turn of the machine,
his body leans out, then back.
Years later, you will glance up
from your book
or your stitching and even
if it’s winter, even if it’s dark out
or snowing, you might see the red mower
still making its way across the lawn,
the man in the cap
leaning out, blue lacquered
to the sky, night waiting in the wings,
summer green and bright.