The man I hired to mow forgot to come.
At least it seems that way. The grass
stands taller now than I had ever seen it
before. Between the garage and the road,
the Indian Paintbrush blooms as if some
spontaneous, wild design I had cherished
during a winter dream had come to life
suddenly, a dream I could only half recall
in the morning’s half light. So there it is,
as if my dream had come true. The dark
orange blossoms spattered around the yard
like butter dropped into a hot pan.
The truth is, I had never noticed these
flowers growing here before. I suppose
when the mower came to mow in other springs,
he had cut them down like anything else
that seemed of no use to him. Unless a thing
could be used to fix a machine
or patch a leaking pipe,
he’d toss it away as so much junk.
He was a man, I suppose,
with no flair for ribbons in his lover’s hair,
nor would he ever confess to delight
in song as far as I could tell.
When I mowed the yard myself one year,
I had cut around a clump of daisies so as
to save them, and I left a violet too.
I would as much save a lovely thing as
I would a child. That’s my way. So now
that I’ve found what flowers
might have been mine all along,
I may fire the man outright.
I’d just as soon give the flowers a chance
as the man. It’s not his forgetting though.
I can live with his forgetting
if that’s what he does sometimes.
It’s the chance he might remember that scares me.
Yes, I would like to build a wall against his return—
he might wake up and remember, tomorrow perhaps,
or the day after. Then he would trudge
back through the morning’s early haze
with that scythe across his shoulder,
and he’d want to lay my yard smooth again,
swishing at flowers as well as grass, at wild herbs,
at weeds, perhaps even at Indian Paintbrush
I first had seen in half remembered dreams.
—Michael Galati
