Ode to a Lawnmower
Flat green like a fern
or battle tank out of place in the grass,
peal-drum loud on suburban afternoons—
the lawnmower my father bought
at a yard sale that Virginia spring.
I didn’t mind mowing our shade-patched yard,
free to cut patterns around sweetgum trees,
around the flowering dogwood my father loved—
circles one week, clean lines,
straight as a music staff the next—
scanning the street with hope and dread
Lisa Lange might walk by.
I was drawn to the menace
of the touchy machine,
its wind-up starter and manual choke,
grime at the seam of block & deck,
a blistering exhaust pipe
I touched too often.
Unable to adjust the wheel height,
I ran the mower high,
exposed my shins to missiles
of stone and wood,
dog shit hidden in a curbside minefield—
still, far better
than practicing string bass,
stuck inside our green carpet playroom,
thirty minutes of scales
clock-watching my way through arpeggios,
the perpetual tock of the metronome.
I was twelve that summer,
each day a rehearsal,
and the lawnmower was something
that made things happen—
let me buy baseball cards
and bottle rockets with abandon,
led me down sidewalks
to the Moffitts and Silversteins,
sometimes the Gritzners,
and the house that never seemed to sell,
where the realtor paid fifteen dollars
to cut the weeds every other Saturday.
*
Off to the Star Party
A whip of stars—
we’ll later learn it’s the tail of Scorpius—
and perhaps this time I’ll remember.
We’re made of the same stuff, after all.
Fallen apples cobble the path
through the orchard,
night vision more memory than sense.
An illusion of stillness.
Even without wind,
everything is on the move—
the remains of a dry year’s snow,
shadow-clung north of the pines,
odds and ends of the sea
this used to be.
Trace the mesa’s perfect plane
as if a blade cut earth from sky,
and when I say the air
is the temperature of silk,
I mean I can no longer tell
skin from night,
am unbound from day’s unease,
steps sure and light.
When we finally arrive at the ballfield—
a sculpture garden of telescopes
between first and third base—
you whisper, Look, a shooting star,
and the whole universe snaps to attention,
including the amateur astronomer
in the red headlamp—
No such thing, he says.
It’s called a meteor.
*
Tim Raphael lives in Northern New Mexico between the Rio Grande Gorge and Sangre de Cristo Mountains with his wife, Kate. They try to lure their three grown children home for hikes and farm chores as often as possible. Tim works full-time as a media consultant to environmental nonprofits and writes poetry early in the morning after walks on the mesas surrounding his community. His chapbook, More Earth Than Flame, was a finalist in the 2025 Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Contest, and his poem, Prayer of a Nonbeliever, was a Pushcart Prize nominee and won Terrain.org’s 2024 poetry contest, judged by Ross Gay. He’s grateful to have had poems published in range of literary journals. Tim is a graduate of Carleton College.
