Friday, June 5, 2009

morning glory

Adam's seeds are in my garden
Never shaken from a packet, purposeful
or folded damp in towels
for faster germination,

though busy, busy, they are unaware
of this neglect.
Spades in reverse, they show their faces
pointed tips and purple-white stems.

I am green but even I
can tell them from the seedlings.
Before they spread their leaves
I snap their necks

And feel I've won.

Tomorrow they return, unfazed,
brazen and with company.
But doesn't tomorrow always hold
trouble enough? I suppose,
and look down uneasy
at my clean cuticles.

I could have taken the time
the trouble
to sink my fingernails in earth,
unearthing dark below
the purple stems, the root.

I could have listened,
not for the snap but for the rend,
the groan of undoing
creature from creation.

Go away! you ill-named noose
on the neck of my blessing

Go curl in choke-holds
up abandoned fence posts.
Go suffocate the half-dead alders
on hills
that are better off sliding.
Take your false-white flowers to empty fields.

Not in my patch of earth and life,
where love is tended
and growing under care.


Anonymous said...

um, that rocked.

Haley Ballast said...

thanks amy! :)

Carissa Boyd said...

You're talking smack to your weeds. In poetry. I love it!