by John Minczeski
It’s an asterisk in the middle of the day;
it’s the dust filtering through the mower’s bag,
the shimmer I wade through that collects
on my jeans, in my lungs; it’s me piling
the partially digested leaves on raised beds,
next July’s harvest a universe away.
I want to say grass storm and
rain delay over red maple leaves
like a priest giving benedictions.
Every day it’s the coming elections.
Ads warn of the worst. I’ve come to
expect the worst. It’s the mower
spitting leaves into the bag,
leaving a widening strip of green.
Such a solemn inhalation, this dust.
Incense, and a threat of silence.
the shimmer I wade through that collects
on my jeans, in my lungs; it’s me piling
the partially digested leaves on raised beds,
next July’s harvest a universe away.
I want to say grass storm and
rain delay over red maple leaves
like a priest giving benedictions.
Every day it’s the coming elections.
Ads warn of the worst. I’ve come to
expect the worst. It’s the mower
spitting leaves into the bag,
leaving a widening strip of green.
Such a solemn inhalation, this dust.
Incense, and a threat of silence.
John Minczeski is the author of "A Letter to Serafin" and other collections. Poems have appeared in The New Verse News, One Art, Tampa Review, Harvard Review, and The Saint Paul Almanac. Minczeski, who lives in St. Paul, has taught in poets in the schools, at The Loft Literary Center, and at various colleges around the Twin Cities.
