Make room for me, the weeds demand.
Their roots, tangled, deep, like thoughts
That darken the horizon, like the clouds and the wind
A murder of crows commands,
and the red winged general sits
On the scarecrow’s hat, grinning.
He loved rocks, and his garden
Has rock walkways and rock beds to honor his memory.
The weeds conspire, twist in between gaps,
Claiming the black gold as their right.
In the morning, after the first cup of coffee,
After the walking of the dog,
After the gratitude list,
Shovel and hoe in hand,
I battle the weeds, pulling out layers
Inside and out.
Remembering his smile,
And the year we all made green tomato marmalade,
And the chutney he stirred, adding secret ingredients,
Pouring the mix into hot jars,
So we could savor the scent, the love,
The work done together, come winter.
The weeds demand my attention,
Force me into the garden,
Where the daffodils have
Trumpeted in the spring,
Where the strawberries get ready
To deliver the sweet tastes of summer,
And the flowers, lilacs, lilies, lavender,
Irises, peonies, a bleeding heart,
Fill my heart with joy.