Saturday, January 8, 2011


I don't possess any gardening expertise, but I can work under supervision.  Pull those weeds, not those.  They look like clover to me, but have a tricky Latin name that I forget seconds after hearing it.  I was convinced I was pulling the wrong plant, all at once, root intact, silent.  Or in broken bits, leaving stubs behind. I tried to keep my balance on the slope of lot S1 and at the same time not pulverize the good plants, the ones we want to live, under the weight of my right knee.  The dark mulchy earth is pressed deep in the fibers of my work pants, which are really just old pants, with a stitched-up hole in the seat.

At the post-work coffee reward, I catch a glimpse of myself in the cafe window:  meandering hobo, the glimpse reveals.  I didn't dare remove my knit cap inside, the warm sweet air clashing with our loamy grassy air.  The coffee is strong and even cream and spoonfuls of brown sugar can't tame it. 

The weeds I pulled will probably return, and spread.  Undoing the work I did.  But that's what weeds do, I suppose.  That's their purpose.

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