Sing to the Weeds of Spring

 

Weeding in the garden

 at the end of day.

A day of rain that came and came 

and then stopped again

just as evening turned

And sun returned

Opening a window 

onto that brief passage

 of spring to summer skies

 

I weed the onions 

and think how grateful 

they now seem 

for all that space and light.

They will, I know

Suddenly expand and grow.

 

I do not pull weeds

But thin instead the plants

that now compete 

With those onions 

we planted, gently, in the spring

that I wish will grow

as big and sweet and strong 

As ever their heritage will allow.

 

The plants I pull

become the soil 

that will then nourish

All this ground 

And flourish from our toil

 

They are equal to the onions 

But take another place

In this garden

That will, with all that grows

 nourish blood

And become 

in time 

our bones.