The season: falling leaves and more troublesome, rising oxalis. Years and years trying to figure out how to weed it efficiently have gained little. It takes forever, it will always take forever, and when you’re done, you know it has been futile. The bulbs are still there, and will resprout, and you’ll have to do it all again. Maybe 3 more times. Last year I tried using detestable landscape fabric beneath the gravel of a walkway. Oxalis bulldogged right through. Aarf.
While weeding yesterday, for an instant, exasperation fell away. Instrument, plant, skill, patience, doer, the December sunlight, warm as October’s, capacious, brimming: it all meshed. Nothing to do, nowhere to be. I forgot my stiff neck, my stiff sentence (over half the garden still to weed.) Bingo. Did it last? I would be communicating this by transcendental vibe, if it had.
Maybe I am.
let’s praise oxalis prince of dim bulbs bestowing yellow on desolation row
its stamina and pluck a crack in concrete will not inhibit an urge to inhabit
I’d chew it to nubs like a starving goat if it wasn’t sure to wreck my kidneys
the season is here tender rains depress small detonators that never misfire
I jab at the ground madman ascendant trapezius tight as tuned timpani
oxalis will dance slip jigs on my grave