Mom offered a penny for every weed
I pulled, no pay if roots remained,
waiting to push through soil and crowd
the lawn again. After a few tries
I got the hang of wrapping fingers
around the base where stem meets soil,
testing how tightly root clung to the ground
from which it grew. Some weeds were easy.
Others rooted tightly, refusing to budge
without the nudge of garden spade or when I lost
the spade, a butter knife from the kitchen.
True to word, Mom checked the weeds
I pulled, emptying the half-full bucket onto
our cement driveway, counting each
before handing me five quarters, two dimes,
a penny. She never made the offer
again, but some seed was sown. Thirty years
later, I rest my knees on damp grass,
wrapping ungloved fingers around the base
of weeds to wrench from the place they
have rooted. I work until my fingers shake.
My back aches as I stand and stretch, facing
the sky. I have lost count yet feel I could
continue always, so many weeds in my life.
I find myself kneeling once more, bending
low and plying my fingers to the work of
clearing ground for some better thing to grow.