The Lion's Tooth

Here on a low seat, tool in hand
I sit beneath a cedar’s shade
surrounded by a sea of grass
covered by a carpet of yellow.
Dandelions everywhere.
My work is hopeless,
yet I stab the grass and twist
at a root, only to bag half a catch
the rest still in the ground to
rise again.

Angry words of the night before
have left me spent and speechless.
Weeds of the soul, deep rooted
refuse to die. They can’t be forgotten,
erased-- and forgiveness comes hard.

Yet how peaceful here in the shade
to hear the morning sounds,
bird calls, a boat on the water
And to feel purposeful
in this garden job.
Remembering what was said,
digging at it
then letting it go,
beginning to understand
that there will always be weeds.

Barbara Wolf (2007)