I fired up the mower¹

    although it was about to rain——

    a chill late September afternoon，

    wild flowers re-seeding themselves

    in the blue smoke of the gas-oil mix.

    To be attached to things is illusion，

    yet I'm attached to things.

    Cold， clouds， wind， color——the sky

    is what the brush-cutter wants to cut，

    but again the sky is spared.

    One of two things can happen：

    either the noisy machine dissolves in the dusk

    and the dusk takes refuge in the steady rain，

    or the meadow wakes shorn of its flowers.

    Believing is different than understanding.