One by one,
I rip the roots
from dirt and shake
them clean.
Stalk by stalk,
I clear the garden
walk of all
the brittle stems.
And who might come
to pull from me
whatever’s brown
and dead?
My own hands
always find
another task
another garden.
Thanks, Rosemerry, this is the kind of introspective revelation we should invite more often into our poetry….speaking truth to ourselves can be a way to open another door
Pre-winter work, so elegant in the pulling. It’s where the poem asks Who might come… that the chore becomes cherish. Nice one.