To celebrate

my elder stepdaughter’s eighteenth birthday
I satisfy a fire department permit and
torch the three garage-sized brush piles, in pieces

I’d lop the hedges more drastically
but Omi wants her privacy

profusion of glorious mock orange
in and over the kitchen garden hedge
just because I watch the stars
doesn’t mean I trust them

arranging the last of the brush-pile kindling
he realized there were no bones
despite the squirrel bodies he’d deposited there


still, none of the gardening books I’ve seen says anything about the necessity of a brush pile … and I have an aversion to the big brown debris bags, and don’t own a pickup for a run to the dump …

so, one sign of spring occurs when something green pops forth from the thawing brush pile

poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson


Garden 1For more garden poems, click here.





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