the landscape of my choosing

 

 

 

I left my garden

6 weeks ago

where I went

I do not know

 

the weeds have flourished

my friends the plants

I left untended

 

I remember

something I heard

a rose in a potato field

is a weed

 

and I go

with hand on hoe

murderous my mission

and as I scythe

too and fro

tears of sweat drip from me 

saturate my brow

drip down between my shoulders

honest sweat

true sweat

 

these weeds

I plucked

some weeks ago

as I tended

I tended

prettied my nest

pared it down

hitched breath

anticipated undress

 

and here they are

stonger than ever

flourishing

and others would use poison

but not an honest method to me

bend to them

break there necks

pluck them

give them an honourable end

 

the poisoner

doesn't care

what cost comes forth

they just want the problem to go away

don't want to trade sweat to pay

 

the weeds themselves

they are the ones who choose

I see some regrow

some not

for the weeds themselves

they choose there time

to wilt

to yield

to die

 

others step forth

to claim that fertile empty space

but I remember that weed

I respect that stubborn weed

with fondest

the glory of that desire to perpetuate

 

and I would fight

till my last drop of blood

last beat of this heart

for you

but the honour

is choosing to yield

refuse suffering

and allow my soil to be vacant

 

will you regrow

I do not know

im onwards plucking

beautifying

sweating

regrowing

shaping

I am in it

how I am in it

living in the landscape

of my choosing