For Mary Junge

The drone of a lawn mower
below this window,
the intermittent hiss
of a sprinkler putting out
the burn of marigolds
in the backyard
makes me wonder
if it is you, Father,
pushing that same old machine.
You who tended the flowers,
bending over their bright
beds when I was just a child.

Here all the children have jumped
off the dock into their last
summer at home. The baby’s
awakened from its nap,
grown up and dashed
into the garden’s full light.

Under this window,
the mower passes by again
cutting away
at summer.