In the garden
it is easy to quiet
the mind and think
of nothing except
garden weeds, how grass
comes up between
tomatoes and carrots,
how bindweed winds
itself into the fence.
Not that I am really
thinking about weeds,
more about pulling them,
hoping for roots. Not
that I am actually
thinking much about
pulling them, actually,
the pulling just happens
and I happen to be there,
a woman attached
to the hands that pull,
and whatever in me
that is sad or heavy,
I don’t know where
it goes, but it leaves
me and all that is left
is a woman attached
to two hands that seem
content for hours
to pull weeds.