In the Midst of Weeds
A poem that follows Monday's post, Selective Weeding, with revelations and imaginings of a small child.
Out my bedroom window I see three-foot waves of grass. These errant blades of shoveled horse dung infest my yard. I’ve despised these clumps that menace native rabbit brush or choke the manzanita. But each spring I wrench up roots that break the hardpan, and find tiny flowers sheltered in their shade. Granite grinds to loam a foot deep where I have cleared and yarrow fills the space. What once was rock now nurtures lupine spears. Today, their wind-borne dance pulls me to remember when a simple dusty path through vacant lots or strips of sage left behind by dozer's plow forged fantasies of forest trails or pioneer travails through hip-high seas of gold across virgin Plains. An urban child escaped her changing world, confused and frightened by the noise, pretending to be wild amidst the weeds.
If you enjoyed this poem, feel free to explore other poems, essays, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archive. Also, I love to read your comments, so please share your thoughts. Let’s start a conversation.
Sue the vampire weed slayer.
"What once was rock now nurtures lupine spears."
The urban child .... "pretending to be wild amidst the weeds"
Just lovely, Sue.