Mowing

I lug the old green lawnmower
from the shed, the one with
the Sears handle bolted on
after the original one busted off,
the old Briggs & Stratton engine.
My husband takes the broken-off
pull rope from my hand and
lets out the choke. He gives
the rope a good yank. We do this
every spring. Hold our breath
and wonder if this is the year
it doesn't start. It starts after
five pulls. I push the mower
into where the dandelions took
over from the sod a few years
ago. Mow lightly over the corner
where the violets crowd sweetly,
roughly cross and backtrack across
the tough yellow dandelion faces,
the next generation aloft in their
tiny parachutes, dust and racket
rising around me like I am
the hurricane eye, Zeuss's wrath,
a woman whose fingers ring as
I let go of this accomplishment.