Yucca - one of the long(er) poems in my new book, Hiding Myself into Safety

Yucca in Winter - PL

Yucca

Granddad must have loved       
yucca, planting it in front
of each house he built, even

the one for himself and Grandy.
Eighty years later, I betake myself
street-side at that ancient house

where—in the past—someone
planted iris, thinking to soften
the unfriendly yucca?

In early August’s coolness, I snip

brown tips of iris blades, yank

yellowed leaves. With gloved

fingers spread like hen’s feet,

I scratch away dead foliage,

 nested oak leaves.

Each old yucca--bottom dead--

I pull over like a naughty child (and there

the simile ends), sever each base.

Did I hear them sigh, as if glad
to be shed of holding upright
the newish green rosettes preening

like teenage girls waving at passing cars?
Several baby plants peek among the iris.
Callously, I yank them up, throw

on the growing pile of detritus
Even so, four passable yucca plants still
center the green and clean bed.

Later, I receive my reward: a tall bloom
stalk that eventually opens to an ivory torch.
Perhaps that’s why Granddad loved yucca.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~


PL c 2016