Weeding
I weeded carefully. Around the one tulip, past blooming, color unknown. I removed all the old poke and the new and some of the hemlock. It's important to be careful. You never know what you might find. There is a plant which resembles spiderwort but I cannot tell. I weeded round and left it there. I left the fleabane. I found some ivy. I filled one large bag and stopped. I can barely see what I have done but tomorrow is another day.
The air is good and cool. I could sit here forever. I read an essay this morning, Of the Coming of John, by W.E.B. Du Bois from the The Souls of Black Folk. I found this, unexpected, there:
“He came to us from Altamaha, away down there beneath the gnarled oaks of Southeastern Georgia, where the sea croons to the sand and the sands listen till they sink half drowned beneath the waters, rising only here and there in long, low islands.”
Poetry.