Weeds and Wounds

a poem

Jules Breton, The Weeders, 1868

---

The Spring sun hung overhead,
noon at my neck,
salty puddles on my back.
I found myself on hands and knees,
shouldering the necessary burden
of pulling weeds. I noticed 
that each attempt to rip
left me with handfuls
of rootless green.
Taking Mother Nature's gentle rebuke,
I slowed,
grabbed low,
and cordially drew
stringy, dirt-clinging tendrils
into open air, allowing
surrounding plants to breathe
a little better.


     Impatience opposes nature.
     Impatience opposes healing.
   

The soul is a garden needing tending.
Weedy wounds seek to latch
around the soul's vulnerable neck.
To uproot, one must bear the 
s l o   w     p      u      l      l 
of twenty-four hours days stacked
to weeks, months, years,
decades.

Patience bows to time
and ages like wine those wounds
that want quick fixes.

Patience winks at wounds
with foreknowledge of future 
scars.

Patience views wounds
as felix culpas — fortunate falls
longing to be lifted.

What a world we live in
where weeds can remind you
that healing takes time.