Tough Weeds

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My aching hands work out
a few lines for this poem.
Where the knuckles turn
my fingers into right angles
I feel the gardening chores
just a little. The tough old
weeds pull hard against me.
I snip at them, my blade
the only persuasion they know.

With the power I save for
play I move under
the umbrella and strum
simple melody on the
mahogany Martin.
Who can read all summer
when summer is exploding
with fragrances, letting fancy
invitations into the air to
let go, come explore flying things–
dragonflies, hummingbirds,
monarchs, honey bees.

The belief in the power of
seeds still lifts my interest
in living, when all else that
the world is doing smells
like a bad pot of beans.
Sprung seeds lifting out
of fertile garden boxes, waving
to the flying things.

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3 Responses to Tough Weeds

  1. Tanya Cliff says:

    Wonderful! I especially loved the last stanza.

    Liked by 1 person

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