Weeding My Garden — Poem №1

Photo by Alysa Bajenaru on Unsplash

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.