The Garden

When I saw white butterflies in the sun
Flutter among my broccolis,
Like a tragic king at the oracle
I knew what was in store.

Now dark mornings find me
On aching knees
With headlamp pointed down
Searching undersides of ragged leaves
Stems fouled with droppings
Tangles of shredded buds.

I spot the velvety worms
The color of what they’ve eaten,
The shape of where they hide.

I lift them tenderly
With forefinger and thumb
To squeeze out their guts.

One Response to “The Garden”

  1. Juliet Potter Says:

    Wonderful Steven – last year they crucified my Collard crop in the green house!! I couldn’t have described this chore more articulately and accurately. I should write one about the black Dart Vader like slugs that are plaguing me!! They come every evening like lines of soldiers at Dunkirk and my vicious scissor attack leaves their corpses lying in the mush that remains of their last meal – all this carnage to save my beautiful Dahlias from their attack!!

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