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
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.