Weeding

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WEEDING


She wears my straw 

hat and stands at my elbow

like a little mushroom 


opening to morning

light. I drop weeds

in her bucket, and she 


drops dirt, bye-bye, flower,

house, like word-spores 

to the wind. We paint then 


with our feet, dark dew-strokes 

towards the compost heap, 

her hand root-wrapped


around my finger. The hope

is she’ll remember this, deep

someplace, grow to love the earth


and earth-maker, to kneel, to know

the slow work of the daily return

to care for what we’ve planted.



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