I will not tend. Or
water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,
fill up or spray.
The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.
Watch as flocks
of wild phlox
appear, disappear. My
lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing
happen.
I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothing I give it.
Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly
room.
- Sarah C. Harwell
I spent an hour this morning pulling grass and weeds from the front garden bed, and I'm slowly shifting to only drought-tolerant, deer-resistant, and mainly local plants, but I would be quite content to share Ms. Harwell's practices entirely. My neighbors, alas, would frown. So.
I wish all a weekend at leisure, pondering and playing, but not plowing. Unless that's your preference.
MFB, and it's back to the garden I go,
L
p.s. Learn more about Sarah C. Harwell, poet and professor, here.
