The first circle of half acre
elbows its way past the smell of gas,
nine arborvitae are much bigger
than planted five years ago would suggest,
stronger than my legs at sixty-one.
My weimaraner is up to her ankles
in shallow river, her webbed toes
conjugating some verb other than swim.
Afternoon heat climbs the mountain
like the first bare feet of summer.
An hour may pass but time matters less
than the sycamore branch lifts me
higher than wherever clouds go
when the sky clears
the sun pushes my tall shadow
through the uncut grass.
by Charles Carr
Editor’s Note: Personification sits within the lines of this poem with ease, ushering in the scent and sense of the summer season.