readying

Susan Daniels Poetry

garden pic

I am no lady, weeding
deep as soil goes, elbows in
and eager to seed,

stopping to wave at my neighbor
who says my kneeling
is more a predictor of spring
than inconsistent robins,
but she’s not a dirt person,
forgets her own clay
and the garden we were cast out of
with a shudder,

but I remember.
I am all earth, grounded
and down to it;

shameless murderer
of dandelion exuberance,
welcome everywhere else
but here, where I want tomatoes

and that’s the key
to growing–knowing what to plant
and what to pull up
no matter how deep
the root.

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