Writing exercise

Personal to literary to poem, or something like that

This is a long one - a writing exercise.

Diary entry:

It is a gorgeous summer day. The humidity has lifted and it promises to be in the mid-80s this afternoon. It is, in short, a great day for some yard work. May I say — pooh! I do like my yard — sitting in it, looking at it, admiring it in all seasons. But yard maintenance is clearly not my thing. By this time each year I manage to weed a little, and water my vegetables when they get dry, but clearing invasive ivy and lugging bags of mulch — not looking forward to it.

The literary version:

I open the back door and my elderly beagle trots cheerfully into the yard. After a week of suffocating humidity, the fresh morning air is almost shocking. Beckoned by birdsong and the rustling of leaves, I step out onto the deck and immediately felt the jumbled emotions. I love my yard. How beautiful it is! So green and lush, with its towering canopy of white oaks, and the abundant hostas and climbing vines. Wait. Those vines are English ivy and bindweed and a dozen other invasive species that threaten to overwhelm all the sweet, modest plants I have tried to introduce. The oaks have graciously dropped leaves (still to be raked), pollen tassels (leaving nasty residue that needs to be scrubbed off the deck furniture), and hundreds of twigs and branches scattered everywhere. Instead of leisure, I see nothing but work. I hate my yard. So on this gorgeous July day, I am writing on my laptop. Indoors.

The poetry version:

Fair exchange

It’s a small price to pay.
leaf-raking
pollen-washing
stick gathering
ivy-pulling

My science book had a pretty picture of the cycle:
I exhale for the trees; they exhale for me.

Thanks for the oxygen, trees.
Thanks for the leaves that feed the soil.
I don’t mind protecting you from strangling vines.
But what’s with all the sticks?

Standing in one place for a lifetime must get boring.

Here, you can watch me move around the yard.
bending
reaching
scrubbing
tugging

It’s a small price to pay.

So I’ll try not to resent it.

My only photo of the yard in our old house. Jim doing the work, Cunningham supervising, me taking a book and brew break.