PEA BRUSH
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walked down alone Sunday after churchTo the place where John has been cutting treesTo see for myself about the birchHe said I could have to bush my peas. The sun in the new-cut narrow gapWas hot enough for the first of May,And stifling hot with the odor of sapFrom stumps still bleeding their life away. The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrillWherever the ground was low and wet,The minute they heard my step went stillTo watch me and see what I came to get. Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!--All fresh and sound from the recent axe.Time someone came with cart and pairAnd got them off the wild flower's backs. They might be good for garden thingsTo curl a little finger round,The same as you seize cat's-cradle strings,And lift themselves up off the ground. Small good to anything growing wild,They were crooking many a trilliumThat had budded before the boughs were piledAnd since it was coming up had to come.
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