I pluck the Japanese stilt grass
Thick handfuls of green that
look like any other
in the recovering Piedmont forest.
The other walkers watch me cleaning up
like when the children did the same, indolent
as the linoleum yielded its mud and milk spills.
Shoving the invasive plants into my husband’s day back,
I grumble about the little red hen.
We all want to hit the trail, commune with the Transcendental
But no one else wants to
Do the work.