Weeding: a love poem

Couch grass, bindweed, dock and dandelion.Each weed takes me back to earthto the bending, the pulling, the constant work.

To weed is to love drifting offto the smell of capeweedin a winter paddock

long wavering heads of spear grasson the river flats in summer,tussocks that cut our fingers

Scotch thistles I hacked from the dirtscrubby ferns I couldn't get enough ofstretches of blackberry where we hid dead calves.

Pigweed, fat hen, oxalis and nettle.Kneeling before buttercups I think aboutthings I shouldn't think about.

The very plants I want to yank outI'm finding ways back to lovesour sob, lantana, nut grass.

I pull out weeds to see where the dayhas gone, a type of reverie like listeningto the radio outdoors, of doing one job

while attending to another, of returningto milk thistle where the thinking gets done,to weed is to love the plants nobody wants.