ladybug

“Yook! Yook! Yook!”
my three-year-old neighbor called
to her mother,
“Yook! I foun’ a yaybug!”
I smile at her discovery
as I weed my front garden.
I’m discovering the names
of the prolific vines that climb
and twine around iris stems,
overrun dried daffodil leaves,
make their beds among soon-to-bloom daylilies—
Virginia creeper, Carolina snailseed,
Black Medick, ground ivy,
Greenbrier, stick-tights,
and wild grape vines with curly tendrils.
Profuse, persistent, possessive,
vines would claim the entire garden
if I let them,
but I’m making way for daylilies,
surprise lilies,
allium and gladiolas.
So I trim back the vines.
Some pull straight out
in long strands.
Some I have to clip,
tugging thin stems taut until I find
the earth-end and then snip them.
Some have twined themselves
around the stem of an iris or a lily
or a curled canna leaf trying to unfurl.
These I carefully and gently unwind.
But I don’t touch the clematis vine
veiling one end of the garden,
for it’s Nature’s bridal bouquet,
soon to bloom in a sweep of small white flowers.
Sultry sunbeams pierce through rain-heavy clouds.
The day sweats and so do I.
Clip.
Tug.
Untwine.
The first white clover appears
under the cannas.
And look! Look!
I, too, found
a ladybug!
Although now,
I think I shall forevermore
call her a
yaybug.
-kh-