Garden Politics

Have you ever starved a hydrangea?
I have. The Government made me do it.
For four days, I have borne witness

As leaves first drooped in listless agony,
Then curled, like a burned child recoils into a tight ball
Of muscle, skin, and pain.

Royal-blue clouds descend
To crispy spheres of fibrous dust,
Beauty meeting truth, truth defeating beauty.

Neighbors on walks with dogs have glanced toward the victim
And at me. I slip between their ears to hear them acknowledge, judge,
Then remember to water their lawn when they get home.

But steps away, cool coiled compassion is stayed
By the rule of law - glibly imposed, weakly obeyed, silently abided.
And the flower falls farther from heaven, closer to earth.

Rattlesnake Run

In summertime, we used to scamper
Beneath the drooping wisteria
Over great boulders and a mossy meadow
Down steep slopes, using roots for ladder-rungs,
Through a canopy of fragrant cedars
to Rattlesnake Run.

We never saw a rattlesnake - maybe
A moccasin or two - but the name was old,
Older than any of us pink-cheeked explorers
Walking paths worn by so many and yet so few.
Rattlesnake was ours - Masons' - mine - a secret
Held by the owners of the Knob,
The high bare hill
Topped by a solitary willow
Keeping watch over the Run, over the house, over the fields,
Over me.

Rattlesnake ran five miles through Mason land,
Twisting a dozen times around Pleasant Ridge,
Running wide, slow, smooth, then
pitching swiftly down, falling twice
Into pools so expertly carved deep into slick rock
we knew that some Mason ancient had scooped them out
For six-year-olds to slip into.

In highsky and dry August afternoons,
When the cattle would wander low into the valley,
The Run would lay bare centuries
Of slate, granite, gneiss,
Yesterday's pebbles sitting in frozen peace atop smooth slabs,
With feeble fingers of water sliding around the sides,
A straightfaced comment on the eternity of Running,
and the damning consequence of not Running.

On those days, we would run
Across the rocks, the same way you might run
Across a parking lot or a cul-de-sac.
Sara would chalk out hopscotch squares,
Or David would bring his blue marbles.
When a flood would throw downed trees against a turn in the bank
We would fashion a fort, call it Sumter or McHenry (or Mason),
Fly David's shirt from a long branch and assault it for capture
'Til we heard Mom call down from the willow
Or saw the shadows fall up past the cedars.

Climbing the winding way
From Rattlesnake to the Knob,
Our soft, heavy breaths mingled
Among the last calls of the mockingbirds
And the first of the whippoorwills.