The Whole Journey
Next week, I say, and then, the one after that, and this is how the lawn
opens into an abundance of dandelions stretching their stems up to
the cloud-strewn sky, a riot of yellow I once would have cut,
hoping to avoid the neighbors’ disdain. Now, thigh-high,
incandescent, these weeds are only one of the delights born of my laziness. If I
neglect my duties, the leeks sprout pom-poms, the asparagus stalks turn
gangly, waving wispy fronds. If I forget to harvest the artichokes, they bring
neon purple anemones from their centers, and the radishes I’ve left to grow wooden
emit a bouquet of tapered green mousetails. I’m learning to let time
scuttle my work. When the leaves brown and fold back into the dirt, it’s not a loss.
Soon, time will undo even me. May I go so boldly to ruin, release such dazzling seeds.
Jennifer (JP) Perrine is the author of four books of poetry: Again, The Body Is No Machine, In the Human Zoo, and No Confession, No Mass. Read more.