On a June day of bright sun and high, white clouds
yet so mild it could pass for early October,
I am mowing the wildness of our daughter’s horse pasture—
about a month past when I had intended,
back before whatever it was came up
that kept me from my promise.

Dark brown seedheads of burdock 
rise five feet high in thick clumps
scattered around the field
and in one particularly dense flush
just east of a rush of willows,
limber and lean in the muck formed from the spill 
of a gray water line draining the washing machine.

Clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace raise 
fine white blooms in random spots.
Along the south fence, a dense growth of sumac
spreads twenty feet into the field,
an unwanted yield whose ringed stalks raise long flumes
of pointed compound leaves that brush against me
just before the heavy whirl of compound blades
crushes and shatters trunks nearly two inches thick.

As soon as I finish that section,
I take off my long-sleeved shirt
and make quick work of rinsing my arms and face
in the cooling brace of the mare’s water trough,
then go back to mowing.

With my small tractor and a four-foot bushhog,
it takes nearly six hours to cut these six acres
of rolling northwest Missouri farmland 
that surrounds their home.

A surprisingly thick stand of brome
raises blades and stems well above the hood of the tractor 
across most of the field:
what would have been a fine yield of quality hay
if I had sprayed 2,4D when needed in mid-spring.
The constant sprouting of Bradford Pear and Russian Olive
mix with a rare stalk or two of honey locust.

It will take some work to rid the hay 
of the weeds and trees and one patch of Johnson Grass,
certainly not a single day’s task.

But what looks hopeless in casual passing
can yet be rich and fruitful given enough sweat,
the right tools, 
and the blessing of him who sends his rain
upon the just and the unjust.


H. Arnett
6/14/2023