The weed unbent in a

lash to the eye

Just as a rose petal

floated onto the back

Of my hand

while standing up from

A premature adieu

to the garden geni;

The next-ridge freight train whistled

back my screech of wist

Imagined to fill the whole garden

but funneled back down my throat

In a quail’s toe worth of correction to

“Watch where you kneel,

“Watch where you step,

“Look up when you stand.”

After cleaning up from this most instructive session of gardening, I went to lunch.

Waiting for strawberries

to warm out of the

Sun brings whiffs of burnt edges–

something unknown,

Untimed, unshared.

When the strawberries

seemed to dance out

And meet all that was

frozen in the surround.

Leaving me to contemplate, while writing this post, the differences between reactions from and to Mother Earth’s still-natural children and reactions from and to Her processed, plasticized , formularized, dishes with particles divided against themseves.  Let us just say that the small sting from the lashing weed completely healed by itself before I had left the garden.  Not so the sting from the frozen glances of other diners while waiting for my warming strawberries!  Back I go to the garden!   Blessings on all weeds and quail toes!


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