Pea Brush

by Robert Frost

　　

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I walked down alone Sunday after churchTo the place where John has been cutting treesTo see for myself about the birchHe said I could have to bush my peas. The sun in the new-cut narrow gapWas hot enough for the first of May,And stifling hot with the odor of sapFrom stumps still bleeding their life away. The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrillWherever the ground was low and wet,The minute they heard my step went stillTo watch me and see what I came to get. Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!––All fresh and sound from the recent axe.Time someone came with cart and pairAnd got them off the wild flower’s backs. They might be good for garden thingsTo curl a little finger round,The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,And lift themselves up off the ground. Small good to anything growing wild,They were crooking many a trilliumThat had budded before the boughs were piledAnd since it was coming up had to come.

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