Dirt Garden (poetry)
Pretty self-explanatory.
My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,
Alive and wild, more so than tended rows
In growth, has died. I killed them a little,
The crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.
"Time and time, I commit these small murders,
To whose benefit?" I ask why and wonder,
The scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.
If I indwelt some luring scrap of land
Far from here, secluded, my own to call,
I would welcome these same weeds, one and all,
To plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,
Just they and I, with no hint of reproof,
And thank the thorns for making a hale fence,
The compost for being my winter blanket.