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Gregory Wolff: Openings

September 9, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

It’s really something, to realize a pond

is always in a state of becoming 

a bog, and then a sunbound field 

of timothy and rye. 

Yes, we like our meadows 

but any homesteader knows 

they have a mind of their own, 

how they send up gaunt fingers 

of sumac and maple saplings,

how they pierce the waves of bluegrass

with canes and ragged plumes 

of dogwood and minty juniper. 

It’s quite a sight to see life build upon itself

in the constant thrust to a forest. 

The farmer’s the one who holds it open,

who parts the vital surge of nature and

every garden is just like this: a gap, a

wound— 

a rebel form that the earth barely tolerates.

Uncovered ground is nothing natural so

we plow, and we till— we weed and rip

the fast reforming surface, that lush scab

of vetch and clover and violet amaranth.

So let’s not pretend a wound can’t be productive, or beautiful 

or also that it will last forever 

amidst the exquisitely abundant 

remaking of the world.

 

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Gregory Wolff

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