Dave Bonta's poem follows one day in a large meadow at the turn of summer into autumn. It opens at dawn, with fog rising like ghosts beneath a thin moon, and the goldenrod slowly brightening as light arrives. The sun is pictured as a quiet churchgoer, and the butterflies and dragonflies feel like a congregation, so the whole place takes on a sacred air.
Then the speaker steps in, cutting down black locusts that are creeping into the meadow. The tool's "steel grin" is a sharp, slightly uneasy image. He admits he enjoys the trees' shade even as he destroys it, which shows a mix of duty and regret rather than simple satisfaction.
The ending settles into calm. A cool breeze arrives, day and night are nearly equal, and happiness shows up as small clouds hanging just out of reach. The mood is peaceful and observant, with a gentle ache in it: contentment here is something you glimpse and can't quite hold.