Parsley PIcking
PICKING PARSLEY
I’m picking parsley,
placing its bitter green leaves
in jars and vases and pitchers
covering my countertops,
filling my windowsill.
Was parsley once a weed?
It has no flower.
No bees bothering it.
No fragrance.
Spreading where it isn’t wanted.
I planted it next to other herbs.
It soon became a bully,
Dominating …
my delicate lacey dill,
Taking over territory …
from my tarragon.
I caught it climbing … out of its pot … reaching for the ground … where it can escape!
Now it sits,
cut off at the stem,
stuck in a jar.
Shall I keep an eye on it?
Just in case?
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