You would think, looking at my garden of weeds
that I haven't gotten my hands dirty in weeks
or that there's been too much humidity
or mosquitoes or New Jersey gnats
or so much rain that mud clings to shoes
weighing me down to my dirty knees.
A few things are growing fine, potatoes
yams, and various herbs, but none
of the expected things, like lettuce or peas,
no marigolds among other things unplanned.
Today, in the coolness of morning,
my husband off to his measured day,
pulling up weeds that reach my thighs,
I was wondering when did I plant
the seeds of broken glass, plastic dinosaurs
and a lone grey soldier, his rifle broken?
I let the Triceratops guard the beets
and the soldier stand as sentry
to one struggling squash plant, not knowing
if it will yield yellow or zuccini,
for the world is suddenly too large
and I must attach myself to small things.