I pull out bonafide cataloged databased weeds that surround the fragile astilbe like handmaidens strongwilled and solid,
yet smother their Lady, threaten her breath with their skirts
Lady Astilbe, feathered nobility, direct descendent of fifty years rooted in a land fifty less or more leagues away
in my grandmother's garden, at the edge of the lawns between clippered green boundaries
where the sour cherry stood wanting for climbing by children who swarmed the branches and spit out the pits
and peach trees that lay low their jewels for the reaching in a land very nearby