Each day he mowes.

Tall greens cut short every few weeks.

Back and forth, different yards, different people.

The rumbling wakes me up, I lie in bed.
It’s Summer.

He keeps asking me but I don't want to,
I don't want to but I eventually do.
Rake the leaves, then rake them again and again.
All day Sunday, the whole family.
Boots and hats, old coats and gloves, denim jeans.
We all work,
him the most and me the least.
It’s Autumn.

Blue tattered robe, christmas morning,
he sits in the big chair half asleep.
He smiles tiredly as my sister and I
rip through the wrapping.
I hand him a present and his face lights up
He turns on the Christmas Story, recites the lines,and makes us laugh.
It’s Winter

Soapy water drips down the driveway
seeping into the cracks
Shiny blue Corvette, a small oil stain on the hood.
Almost perfect.
I help him dry with my sister.
It’s the afternoon, Mom’s in the garden
It’s Spring.