The prayers of the reluctant lawn mower
are answered by the rain. Another day
for reading books inside, to live in peace,
excuses falling from the sky as grace.
I ask forgiveness from the summer hands
who clasp at straws, and want for work today.
Though not so green to think my idle hopes
affect the water in our common bowl,
I guard against a desiccated heart
with tears for all who live under the sky.

A few unwhittled hours are gathered here,
a quiet grove where I can lay my head.
I may do nothing and call it worship.
I’m not as sharp as I once used to be –
more fit for children, a happy plaything,
a ragged form made gentle by much love.
Before too long my summer will be spent.
The harvest waits, the scythe that feeds the world.
I would be still, grow calm within these bones,
and someday yield the balance of my time.