Scythe
Air doubles over where I swing
through afternoon's seam.
I'm lost in the body's rhythm
of joint and muscle, clattering
rake of bones—my heart
tapping out meter, weight
and aim at measured swaths.
I begin on wild roses, tentacled
to stone walls; blossoms, pink
and white, divided with a swipe,
interrogate the air with scent
of dollar perfumes. Thistles,
smartweed, Queen Anne's lace—
all tipped to rest like wind-blown
vases on a grave. What music
the blade and stem release,
a sonorous ring—not apology
or warning, in a key indifferent
to the end? If I miss, clip
a stone or stump, rack the edge
rough, I'll whet it clean
along its quarter-moon curve.
My strokes start slow, slide
away off the blade, but soon
scratch faster—a few sparks
flying. I resume my work at
the boundaries of the field
driving steel through rye—insects
leaping before monster swaths,
diving back into wreckage.
All afternoon I swing—anxious
tick, grateful tock—until
I shave the final tuft of hay, drop
the heavy scythe and rest.
