wildscape. literary journal

Weeding
by Abner Oakes

The spring rain brought chaos,
cracks in the front patio carpeted
with common chickweed, speedwell,
the beginnings of hairy bittercress,
each paver with its mane of green,
and I ease down in it, tuck my knees
under and begin with the tallest, careful
to ease each out so that I get the roots,
not just the false top, shake off the dirt
and tamp it back in the hole, filling
the emptiness. I turn clockwise, a quarter
turn, and reach out again, the bottom
of my bucket filling with this wild salad,
and another quarter turn to clear an arm’s length
of stones, stand, knees stiff, move
to a new section and sit, my turns
to weed a stop motion Dervish in jeans,
fingertips black and bruised.
Even with the washcloth in the shower,
I can’t coax the dirt from my nails
and so take with me dark crescents,
soil and seeds of the day. Tomorrow, the same.
Turning, reaching, pulling, my small repeated
efforts and the clarity that emerges,
brushed stone, fresh dirt, bucket that
I empty onto the hot compost pile.

about the author // Abner Oakes