Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, poem, poetry, potential, weed on June 6, 2019| Leave a Comment »
Pulling ten thousand
yellow-petalled weeds—
how many more millions
left to pull? How soon
will they be back?
Still, marveling
for a moment
at this small bit of
weedless dirt.
In me, how many
thousands of weeds?
And beneath them,
how many gardens
just waiting to be revealed?
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged falling in love with the world, poem, poetry, spring, weed on April 24, 2017| Leave a Comment »
How could I know
it’d be a weed
that would save me—
one which I’ve
spent hours on my knees
trying to eradicate—
didn’t know that
on a day when
I needed to believe in spring,
it would appear in the quack grass,
its tiny purple flowers
calling to me
as if I were not the woman
who had uprooted them,
calling to me
as if I too
have some spring
left in me.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fear, love, poem, poetry, weed on August 8, 2016| 2 Comments »
Fear is just another weed
with a tap root
and thorns
and a thousand seeds
still viable years
long after the stems
have been pulled
or mowed
or left for dead
and love is just another hand
that knows they’ll return
and still pulls the weeds
again, again, again.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged garden, poem, poetry, thoughts, weed on June 20, 2016| 1 Comment »
Pulling tall grass
from amidst the peonies
it’s hard not to admire
the tenaciousness
of grass, admire it
as I rip it out, every
last blade.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awakening, grace, life, poem, spring, weed on March 13, 2013| 4 Comments »
Spring comes to the sidewalk
in the longer days of March.
The sun warms the slab, and beneath
it the seeds of old weeds start to stir.
They are tiny. And who knows how,
but in the dark, they begin to grow
and put down roots and,
though it seems unlikely,
begin to push through the concrete itself.
First a hairline crack. This fissure is somehow
sufficient to provide light and water enough.
Soon there are tendrils, then whole leaves,
then the yellow blooms of new weeds.
What is it in us that knows to push?
I, too, have wintered in a dark, thick cast, one
of my own making. Cramped and dormant,
I had stopped believing in hope.
But it was not hope that cracked the shell.
Nor was it anything that I did.
It was life’s longing for itself.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, datura, haiku, weed on August 14, 2012| 1 Comment »
amdist the weeds
waist-high datura
one scrap of bliss