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Yard Work


No apples on the Braeburn tree. Some years, they

do that, you say. Your father, the expert gardener,

told you so. I’m gloomy. I see portents, doom,

disaster. Our neighbor mows his lawn every third day.

His name is Gideon, and he claims that someone

named a lamp after him. Click goes the switch.


Start the mower: upside-down helicopter

chopping grass instead of sky. Meanwhile,

the pinwheel across the street, among daisies,

daffodils, and a towering sunflower, spins

like a turbine just before takeoff, passengers

fastening belts, actually listening to advice, learning

how to float on something that’s supposed to be a seat.

from BugleFind more by Tod Marshall at the library

Copyright © 2014 Tod Marshall
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

Published in Poems Tod Marshall

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.