The distant revving and chugging of the tractor fills me with anxiety. I pass the garden. Not now! Destruction is afoot on the hilltop. The red clover needs me.
Two friends sit cross-legged in the backyard. Long grass prickles bare feet.
Kathy picks a tasty-looking pink flower. Susie pinches the end of a single petal, gently pulls it free, and places the white end between her lips. A droplet of sweetness falls onto her tongue. She smiles.
Southern clover looks exotic compared to the northern varieties I grew up with. I can’t lose it.
No bits of magenta flower remain in the tractor’s aftermath, but I see something that holds promise.
The furry beige seed pod tickles my hand. It goes into my pocket. Did I pick it before the seeds have formed? Maybe they’ve dropped already. Either way, it’s good that I let some be.