My son stood over me telling which weeds I should not be
pulling by hand, his knowledge past to him by his father. But this boy is a bigger man than his father
in every way. I think about him as I
free the peas from the bird netting once meant to protect them from harm now
threatening to entangle and stunt their growth.
I watch Mother Hen her tail like the fin of a shark leading
her babies through the tall grass.
I pull tiny weeds and it feels like genocide.
I wade the waist high grass and know the horse is coming to
mow it all down.
I love the things I shouldn’t. The flowers on the white lace, the towering
grasses, the twist in vine weed.
I am far too sensitive to be a good farmer.
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