Afterword to A Slice of Paradise
I tacked this first poem onto the end of a previous post on Ring Around the Basin, but if you'll grant me pardon, it's worth repeating in this afterword from Monday's Selective Weeding essay.
Photos of foxtails and mullein by Sue Cauhape. Cooper’s hawk photo by Evan Lipton/McCaulay Library.
Weeds
Foxtails choke my lavender
Weaving up through roots and stems
To wave their sassy feathers
In open rebellion.
Their blades slice my fingers
Muscles cramp after a day
Of yanking them with vengeance
And tossing them in the bin.
My selective weeding flusters me.
I like the foliage on that weed
Growing beside the walk,
But what blossoms will appear?
Will it retain its springtime glory
If I transplant it near the vine
Or turn into some monstrous triffid
Spreading evil through the year.
Which mysterious volunteer
Will look better over here?
And then there is the mullein
So soothing in my cup
But a horror along the edge
A few seeds cast a year ago
Have formed a sturdy wall
As high and wide as a hedge
But I don't want it there
And I certainly can't use it all.
Only after weeks of pruning
Clearing, burning, resorting
To the dreaded Roundup
Only when new plantings come
And thrive in their new home
Raising their textured foliage
And radiant disks into the light
Will I feel satisfied it was a good fight.
That's the reward for rotting hips
Twisted lumbar and knees
That undermine stability.
Only when I gaze upon a garden
Fresh with dew and alive with hope
Do I know that all that effort
Was worthy of the pain
And next year do it all over again.
Local food can be as close as your own backyard. A friend of mine gave us a demonstration tour of the edibles in her yard then cooked a tasty omelet made from our gatherings. That's an essay for another day.
Mullein in the Morning
Mullein heralds the coming dawn
As sunlight flares its budding torch
Roosters call out from backyard minarets
It's time to do the chores.
Toast sits waiting on the plate
Rich with butter and local honey
Perhaps the bees supped
On mullein blooms
Catmint lavender sage
Mixing flavors in the hive
To strengthen my resolve
For another challenging day.
While Buda the cat and I lounged in the swing under the shady locust tree, I saw a strange shape moving swiftly toward us. Suddenly, it settled on a branch just over our heads. A Cooper's hawk peered at us as I sat, breathless, awaiting what this surprise visitor would do.
Assessment
A flutter of wings
A branch sways under weight
Cooper's hawk peers down
Inspects a pair of creatures
Upon the garden swing.
It tilts its head, red eyes cold,
Checking angles of approach and departure
Too close? Too big? What struggle
Would ensue if caught
Not enough distance for speed
And that final thrust
Of talon into flesh.
The prey stares upward
Silent and still
Knowing it's there
Concerned about its fate.
A spread of wings
A branch shakes with lift
Cooper's hawk springs away
Hearing only gasps
Of wonder and awe.