Talking Back to the Mad World : Poem In Your Post

 

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.