I must weed my garden, overcome and ambushed,
Using rough, aching hands
Pulling at sticky green tendrils
Braided and rooted into red clay. Fingers grasp at my apron strings,
Where they claw and hang, just as insecure children
Who sob and heave, stutter with tears and beg to stay home
Unwilling to let go.
Wearily I enter the junk yard of abandoned, unwanted castaways from the seeds of spring – overgrown with bramble and burdock, crab grass and forget-me-nots,
all sprouted while I was busy with more important things.
Now those sneaky thieves steal the ores and minerals, mining in the night what’s meant to feed the flowers and trees.
I rid what returns – yet others pick and choose those weeds for witches brews and healing teas.
Yet unknown growths I cannot understand the good from the bad.
They metastasized while I slept
Like a cancer inside a
Dense breast. There but
Unseen, until it’s too late.
Yet the bull thistle and fiddle necks,
the foxtails and the dead mans bells,
For all the good they may do the ailing,
Suffocate rosebuds, blooms nodding,
innocently taking in the sun.
Yet yellow bursts of marigolds always grabbed my attention. And my grandmother
Would ask me to pull them from her lawn, asking why I loved those pests those weeds?
My mother always said
I grew like a weed.
Did she mean to say
There’s beauty in
Amongst the red Japanese maples,
lavender, rosemary reaching down
From a raised bed.
I dislike order in the garden.
Who am I to believe
I know any better
When Nature provides
An unbroken set of rules.
But my heart turns blue with every tug
With every prick of their needles
Tossing them aside from
My gloves to the pavement
I watch them wilt and wonder
With all those preventative
How weeds still find their way
Up to the sun.
At the end of the world as we know it
The weeds and roaches will remain
So who am I to pick and kill
What’s meant to
beyond my common life?
Cancer grows much like weeds do.
Burning it with poisons
removing it with
The deftness of a surgeon
I wonder how I’ll get the
Energy to tend the flowers
Prune the bushes
Water the peonies and roses
The basil, and the thyme?
The weeds won the battle
Cliche as it may be –
If any passerby and could know the truth,
When they ask themselves,
What kind of people are these
Who would grow a garden
Of weeds, anyway?