How We Go On

"To be shaping again,
model and Tool, craft and culture,
How we go on." – Snyder, from "Axe Handles"







Outside the shed,
buckets of loppers and small limb saws,
the mosquitos
fly in like gray laces,
little shadows
against our beige shirts standing out here under the plum tree.
"Not sure if we should even go out,"
one says, another, "we'll try it, and if it gets too bad, we'll turn back."
Look out onto Curtis Prairie
Golden rod dominates under morning sun,
can't see a thing
no swarms, no under the brush heat,
and so we load the old Ford,
and it takes its bumps across the service road
like an old dog, not much to say,
a couple of bad hips.
"Today we're after Buckthorn," we say
"when you see those long tendrils climbing up the trees,
those are Bittersweet, yank at the roots,
pull it down like Tarzan."
You'd think with loppers into the tangle
you'd be safe, clip away,
stack, take the road, prep the tendrils
in the truck for burning.
Deeper you get in under the old oaks,
now under attack by Buckthorn and Honeysuckle,
every other invasive imaginable,
garlic mustard seizing at every step,
the world is no longer yours.
"No matter the deep," you call out.
Look in on sweaty arm
twenty needle pricker noses
down into the cloth,
how do they know – try anything.
"Walk around a bit and create a little headwind,
maybe you can outrun 'em."
Out on the Evjue Pines service road
cutting back down
toward Savannah Oak and Tract Knoll,
long patches of sun
burning up the air, cleaning it out.
Look off longingly as if stuck out in some
desert, looking in at the waterhole.
Out on the road it's all better.
Better world,
Buckthorn there under control
already for another month or so.
How we go on.