It’s not just buttercups with their essential gold
who reach into the soil and won’t let go.
Not the lemon balm and its stubborn root-stump
that requires more than mere trowel;
not only the invader blackberries, nor bindweed that tunnels
fleshy rhizomes in an underground thicket gone mad—
No: it is also this human heart that refuses to ease
its fervor, long past sense, or obligation.
If only the heart were one of these weeds
whose pith I could sever with the tip of a spade—
Not this fusty tuber, this spud-of-an organ that defies all efforts
to be routed-out and heaped into compost, a pile of bracken
I would set a match to, be done with.
© T.Clear 2011