Pluck

[rejectomorph]

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.