Mowing Wild Onions
by Carol Hamilton



They clump together like teenage girls,
and sometimes I dig out a crowd,
separate fat ones and set them up
in a bit of good soil. But they crowd
like this all over the yard and garden.
The lawn is still in its lifeless shades
and only unwanteds stand tall
and shout about dark green.
So yesterday I gave all the brash ones
a quick haircut, those I have not yet
dug up or killed with harsh vinegar.
A rim of bulbs and weeds
along pavement by the back door
was largely sacrificed
in the name of neatness,
and now the evening air smells
rather like the kitchen
and choppings of preparation.
An appetite for warmth and light
and sustenance is my pay
for the cutting. I the executioner
of too much, will find payback
in more and more of too much,
but this scent of success
makes me momentarily
giddy with abundant reward.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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