Weeding

These days it takes more than trowels to tame the weeds,
days, in fact, of sifting through the lists of plants pretending
to be lawn. I've read these masqueraders' names, magnificent sounds
that stop my hand and spade, pause, ask
why would I remove purslane, poor weed, not bad,
just ‘misunderstood' the gardeners' dictionary says.
And so with creeping sorrel, thistle, lambsquarters, my
list grows long, my hand grows still, my task grows harder
than a simple yank or pull.
Maybe these weeds, like I have been, are simply misperceived,
can offer color, texture, more than ornamental fringe, by some
considered even good enough to eat. I wonder if they know they
are impostors, a syndrome where I've roots,
feeling not quite green enough when blades must be virescent,
too unseasoned to be seen as sage.
And while I do remove some dandelions, deep roots beneath
the lawn so many feet, I take their puffball heads
blow the seeds remembering
how I held their flowers long ago,
when they, to me, were flowers, without pretense,
and I was who I am, without disguise.

Barbara Simmons