Sorting Through Grass, early Spring

My fingers part their roots like hair, tangled green tresses, curling in on themselves, subtle insinuations toward the flower bed, mulch hot-housing them instead of suffocation.
Knotted tight so that I can never pull them. Pulling breaks the fragile necks, stimulates bleeding rootlets to heal into new growth.
Tenacious, grass. Desert, drought, rains, no matter. Grass walks the planet, clings with monkey toes.
Earth smears my pink sweatshirt, my bare hands, the handle of my spade. Blades crackles as it severs roots from soil. Grass-stained me.

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2 Responses to “Sorting Through Grass, early Spring”

  1. clover58 Says:

    Working hard in the garden leaves one’s brain to work on its own, don’t you find? Seems as though that worked in this instance! Very nice!

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