My Gran’daddy’s tractors were always red,
but the riding lawn mower was green.
We borrowed it to mow our acre and
the ditches in between
his house and ours. This was back when
the sun was still our friend,
so I wore a tube top and short shorts
to circle and circle the yard
in what was, I guess, a widening gyre.
Everything I cut
I was allergic to. Sun-fried,
itching, miserable, but
at 14—just beautiful. Just so—
I had knockoff Ray Bans—
I turned dark pink, not really tan—
I’m telling you I glowed.
I’m trying an experiment this month–meant to start in January, but didn’t–I’ve picked a color to look for when I’m driving, all month long. It’s an attempt at mindful driving. To see my commute differently. To meditate on the colors I notice. The color for February is green, and when I think green, John Deere is one of the things I think of, and also one of the things I see on my commute. So this poem is a meditation on green. And on John Deere.