Spring has come.
Spring has come.
I reach for the unsightly old weeds. Their ancient bleached skeletons break off in my leather gloved hand. Their wizened frostbitten roots remain embedded in the nurturing soil. They are dead. They can only stub my toes and bruise my heels with the reminders of their presence. No longer are they tall and waving proud with large taproots leaving only green stains as my strongest clutching efforts are rendered impotent under the sweltering sun. I search for and eradicate those roots to exterminate any specter of their strength.
Spring has come.
I had given up on the fight. I left them alone. I quit picking and judging and plotting against them. Instead, I ignored them with better more productive things to do. My focus strayed and they died a natural uninhibited death that the chill of winter gives instead of the clutching silent cursing and vehemently torn out soil that weeds in their greedy grasping wretchedly hold on to.
My yard is slowly cleared. The spring rains have loosened the old weeds hold further and I take them by the armload to be burned as dross.
Weeds. They are the resentments and little spiteful angers that seemed so important. The ones I let grow so big. I was so unable to uproot them, so in hopeless frustration. I let them molder instead. I neglected to feed them with my time and my mind. Time and weather and my neglect have made them only unsightly testaments of vulgarity in my yard. So too are the ancient grudges and spite-filled angers that grow up around what I try to carefully tend. Their only role is to be a stark contrast to the new growth coming through the rich soil.
Today I clear out the old mutinous soul binding growth and let the garden that is of my making be filled with what will be a bounteous harvest