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.