Oxalis: A Poem if Weeds

The soil I turned just

Yesterday has sprung again with green.

The littlest first of leaves of

Someday back aching weeds.

Isn’t it this way?

The maple Samaras have taken flight -

Ten thousand little trees to

Wing upon the October breeze.

Free seedlings - dancing little weeds.

Isn’t it this way?

That the tiniest of plants might

Remind us of our fragility?

That they cling even to the stone -

Smiling their indomitable green?

Isn’t it this way?

That I shall pass and the weeds remain?

Alas,

The soil I turned just

Yesterday has sprung again with green.

The littlest first of leaves of

An earth someday free of I who weeds.

For that’s just the way it seems.

That I might carve my bare plot of reminder.

My parcel of fleeting, defiant identity all

Brightly displayed with

The fragility of my humanity.