Mowing the Grass on Labor Day 2018

Just like Minnesota in August,
I am hunched and pushing
the electric mower
while sweat and ache
flow through the prarie
of my body.

The crows perch above me,
black angels
in the fading maples,
cawing and laughing
at my toil.

I miss my father again today
and remember all these miles of walking
behind a machine
and the ways he taught me
to do this chore,
first for old Mrs. Bauma
when I was in the 6th grade,
and then at the farm on Saturdays,
and now, without the smell of gas and oil,
yoked to the green of Vermont.

What I would give
to have him teach me again
how to change the oil,
sharpen my kitchen knives,
put away my tools in their proper places,
wash the sink after dishes,
make my bed just like they did in the Navy,
and remind me how to tighten the bolts
clockwise on the wheels of my car.

Just one more time,
on a hot and muggy day like today,
to watch him squeeze the last drops
from a bottle of beer,
smirking with his eyes bright
and shirt stained with the work
of just mowing.