by M.J. Iuppa

Slowly, the gloom of morning’s rain lifts. From my father’s ladder-back rocker, I watch sunlight worm its way through the clouds’ ceiling cracks and admire how green the grass has become in our overgrown yards. Once again, a part has sprung on the tractor, and we’re stuck in research, trying to find the part that will make our tractor ride again. This is a yearly ritual. So much depends on how many times one can say, ‘dammit,’ in a low growl — the sputter and choke and plume of gray smoke — are all part of the rush.

The grass grows and grows and grows, and we watch. We wonder if the neighbors are spying; no doubt, judging the state of yards gone wild with a sudden rash of dandelions, spinning gold into seeds; waiting for a gust of lake wind to blow against the infantry of wizen heads, setting a thousand wishes in motion to start, again.

Pity, this stubbornness can’t be us; even though, we talk like sixteen penny nails, we know our place here is temporal. So, what’s the rush?

old tractorold barn cloudy sunshine

M.J. Iuppa is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College; and since 2000 to present, is a part time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport. Since 1986, she has been a teaching artist, working with students, K-12, in Rochester, New York, and surrounding area. She has three full length poetry collections, most recently Small Worlds Floating (2016) as well as Within Reach (2010) both from Cherry Grove Collections; Night Traveler (Foothills Publishing, 2003); and 5 chapbooks. She lives on a small farm in Hamlin, New York, USA.

Photo by David Jones

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