POEMS

Cursing the Weeds 

As I sit
Looking out over the garden
My eyes are drawn to the uncut grass
And that patch that grows a different shade,
To the shed door that doesn’t quite close
And the fence panel resting out of place.
I see uneven flagstones
And that leaky gutter.
So many things to do, I mutter.
And so I feel pulled, dragged in to action.
Called to account for so much unfinished business.

I hold my nerve, choosing to sit.
Letting eyes close and feeling the breath.My mind regurgitates the images,
Reminding me of jobs not done. My body feels the tension, a reflection of the gap,
The gaping chasm between how things are and how I would like them to be.I open my eyes and look out over the garden.I ask myself what can I bring to this?
After a moment flailing in the wind…

Perhaps a spark of curiosity.

I wonder what it would be like to step out and feel the dew on the grass.
Whether that patch feels any different
It is such a strong colour!
I remember the smell of cut grass.
I notice the plant beneath the leaky gutter, drip fed, and flourishing.
I enjoy the simplicity of the brick
Propping the shed door closed.
I feel a longing to go outside and be in the garden.

I hold my nerve, choosing to sit.
Letting eyes close and feeling the breath.
My mind wanders out, longing to feel
The cool, crisp blades
Of the dew-covered grass.
I feel the energy, the prickling
Emergence of interest.
The distance between where I am and where I would like to be.
I open my eyes, look out over the garden, and smile.
By Peter Morgan

(http://www.wordstositwith.com/collection/cursingtheweeds)