I
Belly to the soil, fingers in the trough.
Depth and rates to check. Seeds in soil.
Each row rises, orderly and only the
weeds run wild. Taunting. Surviving.
II
No weeds dare grow in her gardens.
Fierce with knife, spoon and spade.
Grandma grew flowers, vegs and fruit.
Weeds were banished from her order.
III
She hated to see them die in fall.
The geraniums in her random pots.
So in they came, Scraggly. Stinky.
Living in a year round summer.
IV
“Can’t you just….?’ they asked knowing.
Knowing the blank would be always that.
“Just be tame?” or “Just be unlike me?”
I’m sure I’ll always be a weed there,
tossing out the order of someone’s
beloved garden. A dandelion blooming
through cement cracks, a sunflower
in the highway median. Something not
quite right, not really belonging there
and yet thriving where you said I would
die…or where you wanted me to not be.
`
V
Seeding requires faith. You gotta let em grow.
No diggin’ them up to see ‘wassup’ when in
the soil they are restin’ dark and moist.
Seeding requires patience. You gotta let them go.
No foolin’ with them once they start to come up
trusting their roots and their leaves to reach.
Seeding has one hand in the soil and one eye
on the sky…prayers of hope rise up and
tears sometimes wash the dirt back down.
But when they rise up, tall and reaching
for the sun’s light to follow, then we see
what the hard work of faith can show!
I am hosting Poetics tonight for dVerse and I’m feeling in the mood for some short stuff…enjoy the other poetry, and plant those words and poems people!
Learning how to check the seeds close up!
