In the garden all day long hoeing, sowing.
Tattered Old Farmer’s snug, in bibs,
declares last frost. Raise your figs on Mother’s Day
waken them from pine bowed sleep.
good guidance then, good guidance now.
Worrying the new news weatherman.
With its tattered pages tuned to moon phases,
whiffs of northern breezes, big picture thinking.
Now, acres live in cyber clouds.
Wall Street farmers farm mega bites per second,
stroll out in upscale country clothes,
while GPS measures moisture, pollen, predict bushel production.
Almanac’s on line, but still he hedges outlooks,
from his phone, on the way to Surf and Turf for dinner.
Sky Scrapers starve my shadow.
He can’t follow me for the cold shade.
We’re each pinned down in gray.
A few resurrections at dawn and at dusk.
Above, erector set cranes advertise condos:
“AS HIGH AS YOU WANT”. $ 3-12 million,
cast creeping shadows
fifty floors up.
My double fades to gray,
then not there.
Shadows don’t like shade very much.
Can’t find his glimpse on the cross walk.
But knows he’s safe,
just following me, incognito.
Off to Shadow Park to play shadow charades.
Dancing at dawn, he elongates west,
hugs close at noon.
At dusk, stretches as long as east gets him.
Always with me,
Still with me across the crosswalk.