A COMMUNITY OF TWO

by Earl J Wilcox

Early this morning just after the sun
begins its day in our neighborhood

two elderly men arrive in their
little white truck, its bed hauling

shovels, axes, a pick or two, wheel-
barrow, assorted rakes—and their

little black boom box. They are here
to whale away at a big patch of wild

weeds and grass I need defeated from
my front yard. I sit on my porch step,

not to oversee because they have known
for all their lives how to work against

weeds and other stubborn growth.
The pandemic is no match for these

two whose social distancing may not
suit the virus gurus. As they dig and

rake and haul away their talk animates,
fills the air—hardy laughs, grunts

accompany tugs against tough grass.
pauses to wipe a brow, massaging

a calloused hand, back stretching.
In their galaxy today, the antibody

is talk mixed with dollops of country
music, occasional arias of southern

gospel plus a local car salesman still
hawking the best deals in town.


Earl Wilcox is reopening his back yard to squirrels, robins, and cotton tail rabbits. Early worms show up at their own risk.

GRAB-ORIENTED FLEXION

by Jennifer Clark

Photo by Nathan Atkinson on Unsplash

I do as Greg says, for five minutes, three times a day.
I feel silly, sifting my fingers through a medley of dried
lentils, black-eyed peas, and rice, trying to grab and release.
Instead, my right hand wants to pull the skyscraper of weeds
rising through the weigela. My thumb and forefinger itch to pinch
the dead heads of zinnias and marigolds. I should be thinning
the obedient plants, trimming the crazy-haired boxwood.
There is so much work to do in this world.

Attempting to grab and release, my hand wants to seize and shake
the trumpet vine that my well-intentioned neighbors planted.
The orange thug invades the garden with fire and fury.
It loves to feast on fences, has been known to break windows
and pry the siding off homes. Round Up and yelling don’t work.

As the trumpet vine threatens to take over the neighborhood,
I recall one weary gardener’s opinion: it is not a plant, but a form
of domestic terrorism. Here is the best way to handle this noxious
vine that thrives in poor soil yet can attract the sweetest hummingbirds:
Do not ignore it.

Left locked and loaded to its own devices, it will only
displace desirable vegetation. Call it by its true names:
Campis radicans and cow-itch. Don’t fight it. Give it
excessive care. Water it. Nourish the soil. Love it to death.

We can not give up on this good world, even as it slips
through our fingers, we must keep trying. So, go ahead,
roll up your sleeves, plunge into this seeded and weedy
life, and grab and release. Grab and release.

Jennifer Clark, whose left hand wrote this poem, is the author of Necessary Clearings (Shabda Press). Her second poetry collection Johnny Appleseed: The Slice and Times of John Chapman is forthcoming from Shabda Press. She lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan.