I squat before I kneel,
finally collapsing to a cross-legged sit,
my hands busy as dandelions and grass
and false clover come out by their roots,
some more easily than others.
The pile of unwanted plants grows beside me
and the clean, black dirt is exposed,
waiting for new seeds hanging from soft,
white, floating umbrellas
to find their way to fertile soil.
Nature abhors a vacuum.
I stop and push a strand of hair off my brow,
feel the sweat trickle between my breasts
and hear the buzz of insects
as they survey my sumptuous flesh
in search of a tasty meal.
There is now a smudge where my muddied hand
brushed my forehead,
fingernails encrusted with embedded dirt
that will take repeated scrubbings
to come clean.
I look at the heap of weeds,
at the spaces between
hydrangeas and bleeding heart
and wonder who is the victor here,
to whom go the spoils.
