At the end of the drive,
in a bucket—square and sure
to have stowed cat litter—
my neighbor is giving away
hydrangeas;

                        a card
clipped into the miniature
music stand beside the pail
declares as much. It reads
Free: Take Some

but under the pen letters
you can make out
the lawn service’s green
warning, illustrated
with scottish terriers
and paper dolls.

We are always wanting
to be done with poison

and always, without
meaning to, waiting
for someone to untangle
a mophead purple
from the other windfall

and to bear it—miracle, torch
of cotton candy—home.