CORONAVIRUS MUSINGS Chopping at the giant strelitzia feels good, even with inadequate secateurs. Crrrunch. Crash. The wide flat leaves flap to the ground, defeated. More sunlight to warm our cooling pool. Hot work, too. I put down The secateurs, stretch,

CORONAVIRUS MUSINGS

Chopping at the giant strelitzia feels good,
even with inadequate secateurs.
Crrrunch. Crash. The wide flat leaves
flap to the ground, defeated.
More sunlight to warm our cooling pool.

Hot work, too. I put down
The secateurs, stretch,
and step gratefully into the water.

Later, I see a leaf
way above my lethal reach
with five perfectly round holes
punched across one side.

Bullet holes? Hardly,
in our quiet eyrie, perched in the bush.
Then I spy a young leaf, rolled,
waiting to unfurl its glory
and wave its banner at the sun.

If a hungry insect drilled
straight through that juicy roll
and then departed…yes!
Its mark would stay forever.

So what has my attack
meant to this sturdy plant?
A dozen leaves executed,
lying in a heap,
still green, but severed.

Gardening is not
for the faint of heart,
thinks Madame Defarge,
casual executioner
of the leafy suburb,
tenderly rescuing
a small bronzed beetle
from the oceanous pool.