REALITY: Terrorist Garden

I wash my hands of the despair of life.  Headlines screaming cars that play at ninety miles an hour; the game called by skids and screams and the solid stillness of a tree.  Across the sea more cars and bigger buses blown to shimmers blending blood and sparkling bits of metal flying high into the sky and plumping back to earth in dust that’s swept up in a fevered moan by end of day.  Somewhere someone dresses for the morn in funeral garb, smiling as he buckles up a belt around a waist below a heart that soon will stop its frantic beating to beliefs held in his brain.  What can I do?

Softly humming in the row of beans I go along with weapons to the weeds and coax them out so that the others can survive.  Here, I know my enemy, the random sprinkling of the wild mix well within the crowds of squash and dahlias and tomatoes and hot peppers as well as sweet.  But I can see them, know them, pull them out.  My hands are dirty, streaked by earth and bleeding stalks of dying purslane, lambsquarters, dandelion.  It is all that I can do.