Mr. Gray Steels for Winter
A week of crisp mornings—twin contrails
of breath quickly thinning in Kansas air—
signals the coming change as surely
as the losses lopsiding the Chief’s record.
The only thing it means to me: the need
to change gears in the mental machine
that attends to the maintenance and perfection
of this neighborhood’s most enviable yard:
prepare the tractor for this year’s invasion
as trees betray their purpose of coverremove the mulching plate from the rider,
attach the tag-along vacuum baggerfile to points the top of the chainlink fence
where that little shit Fred’s been hopping overblow out any excess moisture from the hoses;
consign them to terra cotta pods for storageclean last year’s ashes from the pit, broadcast them on
worn patches of grass for the nitrogen contentchainsaw, bowline, hatchet, and loppers: make certain
this year’s brushpile is uniform to burn quicklybrush refined foxglove on the rusted triangles
of can tops planted where the neighbor’s dog digssharpen edges on the snowblower and coal scoop;
lay in bags of salt and sand for concrete surfaces
My last task: bringing potted flowers inside
to survive frosted evenings and snowy days.
The ancient walnut husker, serving as plant stand,
reveals a surprise when I crank the oversized wheel;
and instead of earth-stained hands, my rag is employed for tears
when the chute expels the bones of the missing hummingbird.