Whispering Wild

A boy is digging
his hands down under the surface
following one root
after another to a place
that gives. Finished here, he moves
further down the bed and I follow,
raking the mulch smooth. Except
every stroke combs free
what the boy missed, one green stem
after another gripping hard
to life. I squat and pull
a trowel from my muddy pocket
then cut through, feeling
for a soft joint, a pop. Shoots
thick as fingers, long as limbs.
Down there they go on, snake
through a warren of tunnels,
drawing towards each other
and together, to their source.

I stand again and spread soil
like paint. Another weed peeks through
and every single time
I have to choose.

Prudence counsels
us to seek and wrench loose
unwanted defects that spoil
the renewal we work so hard to
cultivate. But what says
the clay from which we are made?
It trades advice for example,
letting native rhizome tuck itself
for now under this thin skin of soil
and go on with its work
which will surely yield
a growth just as marvelous
if not
altogether smooth or even
evident
to those who favor
the tame.

Photo credit: William Marshall Brown’s Hoeing in the Fields

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