
Planting but planting what? Lily
Plants itself where ever sun touches
And Butterfly Bush must be cut down
To at least a foot above the earth,
Their purple squirrel-tail blooms
Pointing accusingly to the pines
With their sagging branches weighted
By their meat.
Grass loves growing where I love it least.
In the beds, but, no!, not in the useless
Pasture land over which the bush points
With a sarcasm that smells of grapes round as bumblebees.
The leaves above the potrim yawn blackly
With tongues green and long.
