Weeds and Wounds
a poem
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.



Beautiful, moving, and wise.
Love the imagery!