SUCHNESS

Unable to find a bait station, the termite guy
says Call me when you’ve trimmed all this.
I say It’s supposed to be this way, a cottage
garden of its own making and movement,
a profusion that sees beyond any preordained
order. He sees only thorns, a cloud of white
climbers disappearing the stone path. So much
suchness is good for the soul. Lord, I’ve tried
to tame it, but let me not try to suppose where
or what it should be but its own labial pink,
its own gallop across borders and walls. Is that
lavender? he asks, and I crush the slender
wands, bring the scent to his nose. Our eyes
close, and for a moment we wander unbound.

DITCH LILIES

Like every year, I say I’ll dig them
before June sets in, before they take up
even more real estate and spread like
the plague. While my back is turned,
they crowd out the starry hybrids. I should
be so careless, eating joy and sun
by the cupful. I should bow to the breeze
as if it’s my last breath—because it is,
whatever is next is next, whatever isn’t
is now. Within the ditch, the detour,
there grows the divine. Go ahead, light
the orange torch before night spills
sorrow and regret. Wantonly flower
before your ear’s to the ground.

Poet, playwright, essayist, and editor, Linda Parsons is the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. Her sixth collection, Valediction, contains poems and prose. Five of her plays have been produced by Flying Anvil Theatre in Knoxville, Tennessee.