Mowing

I forgot for a moment
that you are everything I want.
You turn your head just so,
like the red-winged blackbirds
that flew in the field with me,
with your eyes welling, then
bidding me run with them
like the winding creek,
where I would find
the unassuming friendship
of wise and pretty little things.

I remember now,
the lingering azure days
were like your warm hands,
reaching just for me
before I learned to judge.

Four purple swallows
spun around me on the mower today,
and as I cut a sharp circle,
one was suspended in flight
while the world went by.