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