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.