Weeding My Garden — Poem №1
I’m very good at pulling weeds up by their roots from the garden.
And the truth is,
I get a sort of strange physical pleasure from it.
I make exceptions for anything that blossoms,
especially if it’s yellow,
but I’m very efficient.
I know how soon to head out after the rain stops.
It’s the tug of the meandering tendrils
against the pull of my will,
the satisfaction of dethroning an interloper,
the frustration when it rips at the ground
and I know we’ll have to fight again,
another day,
and again.
This months long stubborn impasse,
my refusal to use the small shovel meant for this purpose,
even when I know it will work,
better even,
than my two hands,
But it’s always my hands —the most intimate form of combat
until every bit green is in the compost bin
and I can ignore everything lying underneath the soil,
for now at least
— it’s all a bit like loving someone impossible to love
and carrying on loving them anyways…
until they are plucked and uprooted
— I’ve been a bit of an expert at that too.
