JIMSONWEED
Cloudless solitude of the dog days.
Sparrows vexing grasshoppers,
cicadas droning in the limbs,
and ho, a box turtle
trundling over pine needles in the shade.
The dog knows this thing is alive,
poking the shell gently with her nose,
but can’t figure out how, or why.
Ornery marginalia in the tractor ruts,
pokeweed, jimsonweed—
who gives them
these grit-spangled American names?
August 17th: a day you’ve seen before
but wouldn’t recognize
if it stopped you on the corner
to say hello.
—from Rattle #85, Fall 2024
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Campbell McGrath: “This poem was written by my grand-dog, Magnolia.” (web)
