Weeding Lavender
When I hunker down
weeding my rows of lavender
an English lady in a porcelain tub
smiles, and hands me the bar of soap;
an English gentlemen, who has finished shaving,
grins, and pats cologne on my face;
and I remove from a bureau
folded linen drawers that I don.
Standing before a leaded casement window,
a cup of tea in my hand,
I survey the garden below me
where an old man on his hands and knees
patiently plucks grasses from a parterre of lavender.
—Gary Jones, Sister Bay, WI
