Roots

a poem

Mom offered a penny for every weed
I pulled by the roots, no pay if roots
remained, waiting to push through soil
and crowd the lawn again. Took a few
tries but I soon got the hang of wrapping
fingers around the base where stem
meets soil, pulling a bit, testing how tightly

root clung to the ground from which
it grew. Some weeds were easy to remove
others rooted tightly to the ground,
refusing to budge without the added nudge
of garden spade or when I couldn’t find
the spade, a butter knife from the kitchen.

True to word, Mom checked the weeds
I pulled, emptying the half-full bucket onto
our cement driveway, counting each
before handing me five quarters, two dimes,
a penny. She never made the offer
again, but some seed was sown. Thirty years

later, I rest my knees on damp grass,
wrapping ungloved fingers around the base
of weeds to take from the place they
have rooted. I work until the fingers on my left
hand shakes. My back aches as I stand
and stretch, facing the sky. I have lost count and
it feels as if I could go on forever, so

many weeds in my life, yet I find myself kneeling
once more, bending low and plying my
fingers to the work of clearing ground for some
sweeter, better thing to grow.