“
Now reading
Raising Cane
of freshly cut grass, the feel
of turned earth in the flower beds,
and the sight of new white
paint give one cause
to retire to the porch swing
and wonder: What should I feel?
Not touch, smell, nor taste
of the honeysuckle,
but the person missing, the traveler
for whom all this has been prepared.
No one comes. Only the one
who waits, sipping the cool glass
of lemonade, will have expected her.
RAISING CANE
Bean poles, fishing poles,
something to knock down
the pecans. My neighbor
has suggestions
for their use, but none
for their removal.
He smiles at the young shoots
tracing the line
of root across my yard.
Save yourself
the trouble, he says,
let them grow, nine, ten
feet, then harvest them.
He goes on to tell
how they took over his
garden that year
after he planted
the first small root.
What is his purpose?
To make me thank him
for planting them
while admitting
he was wrong? He seems
so proud of the work
he had to do, burning
the growth, digging out
the roots. All but one
that is. The one that,
close to the fence post
and under my hedge, seemed
out of reach. His story has
all the details
of his failure, the fingertips
cut and sore,
the small root tips
invisible in the churned
earth. Yes, he says, save
yourself the trouble.
Thanks, I say, tugging
' a shoot which breaks off
in my hand
and leaves its root to spread.
Watching me, his smiling
wizened face
is rice paper,
the artful fragility
of brush strokes, old men,
and stands of cane.