Green Revolution

The struggle for domination has been joined again:

I, the gardener, wrest the weeds out of flower beds,

piling them in green heaps to be taken to the compost pile

or to the chickens who will scratch and tear at them until

all that remains will be long, thin tendrils that once were hearty

gill-over-the-ground, or stiff stalks of thwarted goldenrod.

It is thus every spring. Determined to be victor, if only temporarily,

I pull, twist, cut and dig the unwanteds from my beds. Every year,

the plants return, their enthusiastic tendrils wrapping iris, weaving

through lily-of-the-valley, hiding beneath the daylilies. I swear

they grow stronger for the challenge, dig their roots in deeper

but I refuse to cede the field to their predations.

And yet I know that when I am no longer able

to fight this fight, the weeds will triumph and in the end

Nature will take back her own. It has always been so,

and I bow my head to the inevitability

while yet casting my eyes sideways

and reaching down to grasp

just one more strand of wild sweet potato vine

and twist it from the soil. For this moment at least

I am winning, or perhaps the only one fooled

is this old gardener, trying to contain what has always been wild

and will always be so, beneath the groomed cover

of blossoming borders.

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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