Weeding in May
I plunge my fingers in the warming ground
Up to my knuckles. In this private place
I grope through tender strands of living lace
And tug until I hear that tearing sound.
I lift it, dripping soil, still redolent
Of life in loam, and squeeze it in my fist.
Willow-herb, buttercups and bittercress
Are crushed with blinks and trailing tormentil.
But even ripped from earth I know their seed
Remains and severed runners self-repair
To colonize and rise again elsewhere,
For such is the tenacity of weed.
Like guilt or grief refusing to abate,
There are some things we cannot extirpate.
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Remains and severed runners self-repair
To colonize and rise again elsewhere
For such is the tenacity of weed.
Like guilt or grief refusing to abate,
There are some things we cannot extirpate."
a VERSE NEATLY CRAFTED for a whole enjoyment
I'm delighted you recognised to the subtext, Atticus.
with all its subleties.
Thrilling and very natural
(I miss buttercups)
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
An absolutely brilliant write; ripe with imagery that truly awakens especially the sense of “sound”.
Barbara, your response is all a writer could hope for - so thoughtful, and showing you have really considered both the diction and the thoughts that underlie it. I am truly humbly grateful.
This is very nice, Mike. This poem is so honest, simple, with great discoveries hinted at.
Your writing has just come to my attention. This poem I particularly like but made me think how alike weeds are to terriorists. I hope your poetry has brought peace and contentment to your life.
http://www.paintings-prose-palmbeach.com