They plant him in the spring
before grass or daffodils
Or house sparrows
He is there sitting
In a faded white lawn chair
Dark shirt, dark work pants,
Grease-stained Stetson
Against the white chair
And bare ground
A wizened bulb
A crow wintered over.

He is less visible
After willows and elms leaf
Blending with trees and earth
a pitchfork against a haystack.

His shirt buttoned tight
At wrist and collar
Neck lean and bristly
As a sunflower stem

He is not an old man
To be patronized.
I thought of taking cookies
Seeking his stories
Hearing his complaints
But he doesn’t need me.
Although his acreage is diminished
In his yard are sun and water
And family chirpings

Nor could I tell him why
It is a small relief
To see him, quiet
As a county road
At my roadside,
Common, hardy,
At sunset, pure gold.