At last I attacked
a rude section of weeds
in the veg garden. I dug,
pulled, yanked, ripped,
shook, and tossed plants
with white ganglia roots.
I sweat, took off my jacket,
got chilled, put it back on.
A rain squall came. I told
myself to stay in the weeding
moment. Zen weeder. I couldn’t.
My mind hopped around
like water drops on a hot
griddle. But trying to stay
in the moment kept me
weeding, at least. Half-
zenned, half the weeds gone,
drenched, I scurried inside.
hans ostrom 2024
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