Forage: Summer

Down the road and around the corner, milkweed. There hedging the irrigation ditch in the farmer's field, lolling in the breeze, neighbors with tall grasses and tasseled grains. The evening sun, pulled but not yet caught by the horizon, wildly throws its golden light.

I wade in, basket in hand. My dress floats on waves of green. I've a pocket knife for cutting (every girl should carry a pocket knife for cutting, slicing, whittling), and I move from stem to stem, cutting them long, mounding them in. I watch the sticky sap drip milky white from the stems and I smell their scent, sweetly summer.

From my gardens at home, I choose daisies, spike speedwell, and clusters of samaras from the boxelder bush across the lawn. Together in a milk glass compote, they're a raucous affair, each one a bit wild and of its own mind. Delightfully so.