The soil I turned just
Yesterday has sprung again with green.
The littlest first of leaves of
Someday back aching weeds.
Isn’t it this way?
The maple Samaras have taken flight -
Ten thousand little trees to
Wing upon the October breeze.
Free seedlings - dancing little weeds.
Isn’t it this way?
That the tiniest of plants might
Remind us of our fragility?
That they cling even to the stone -
Smiling their indomitable green?
Isn’t it this way?
That I shall pass and the weeds remain?
Alas,
The soil I turned just
Yesterday has sprung again with green.
The littlest first of leaves of
An earth someday free of I who weeds.
For that’s just the way it seems.
That I might carve my bare plot of reminder.
My parcel of fleeting, defiant identity all
Brightly displayed with
The fragility of my humanity.
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