Weeding

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.