Pluck |
[Apr. 19th, 2010|12:00 am]
rejectomorph
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Foxtails are growing by the fence, where the mower can't reach, and through the poppy patch where I can't mow without slicing the plants I want to keep along with the invaders. Foxtails are pretty, especially when they're still young, but they are dangerous to animals and it's best to get rid of them. They are increasingly difficult to unearth as they age, so it's best to pluck them up while they are small, before the spiky heads harden.
The ground is still soft from the damp left by recent rain, so they come up easily. The plants are soft, too, and I note how pleasant they smell as I pull them from the ground. Then I recall how unpleasant it is to have a mature foxtail sticking in a sock or crawling up the inside of a sleeve or pant leg, but I still feel a bit sad that I have to slaughter so many attractive little plants. I also feel annoyed that it takes so long to slaughter so many plants, and that my knees will probably be aching all evening. I quietly curse the importers of this exotic vegetation.
Sunday Verse
Doing Laundry on Sunday
by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
So this is the Sabbath, the stillness in the garden, magnolia bells drying damp petticoats
over the porch rail, while bicycle wheels thrum and the full-breasted tulips open their pink blouses
for the hands that pressed them first as bulbs into the earth. Bread, too, cools on the sill,
and finches scatter bees by the Shell Station where a boy in blue denim watches oil
spread in phosphorescent scarves over the cement. He dips his brush into a bucket and begins
to scrub, making slow circles and stopping to splash water on the children who, hours before it opens,
juggle bean bags outside Gantsy’s Ice Cream Parlor, while they wait for color to drench their tongues,
as I wait for water to bloom behind me—white foam, as of magnolias, as of green and yellow
birds bathing in leaves—wait, as always, for the day, like bread, to rise and, with movement
imperceptible, accomplish everything.
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