Me & The Loppers Vs. The Juniper Bush

These loppers I carry to the hedge are worn and rusted
but I’ve trusted them for years to clear the juniper
and vine from fade-staining that side of the old house.

The old house; not so old, really�"not in this town in any
case: cape-style, roaming and airy, with west views
of someone’s meadow that hasn’t changed much.

It hasn’t�"except for the wild spreading blueberry
shrubs that are so lovely and forgotten till picking
time comes and goes like a late summer memory;

it went softly (so unlike a rusted tool like this that bites
the tough gnarled brambles and chews the vine);
however, a little oil and the snap-jaw of the old loppers

springs my hedgework into mad yard clearing action so as
to renew our assault on the juniper till neither can stand
the shrubby ginlike fragrance that inebriates the front yard;

not even the cat, who normally knows the brambles better
than the loppers or myself, can stand it, and soon even the
house surrenders to the soft, springtime afternoon light.

Yes, afternoon light, all drowsy like a sweet lover retired;
I lean the loppers against the tree and lay back to swing in
the breezy hammock, having won another for House Morgan;

another for Morgan. These loppers were my father’s tools
after all. He knew too well what battles the mayday
front yard had in store and he knew that if the oiled and

sharpened pair of Aubuchon loppers were asked again to
meet the juniper and vine, it would be just another patient
victory for he and I; it would be another hedge cut back

to reveal the fading House Morgan that he built. Rusted old
loppers, then, like oldness itself, waver when held aloft but
when close gorge the ginberries maddeningly from their root.