no gardener

I discovered that I am no gardener.
I like to put on my old favorite
t-shirt, now holey, my old favorite
Chucks, now riddled with rips and
no longer maroon; I like to put on

my soft, tough yellow leather work gloves,
and pull, slide into them, fap and thap
between the knuckles, working them on,

I like grabbing the tools I plan to use,
and I like planning to use them.

But several hours later I have been frustrated
in my active meditations. I have not gloried
in my bodily exertions. My mind spent the time
in confusion and regret, thinking "is that also
a weed?" Reaching in and grasping long stems

of twined vines, woven through the bush's branches
and pulling them through and out, like
entrails. Making piles of them.

Thinking "Why must I cleave this poor
vigorous, green leafy blossomlike shoot
just to be even with the others?" Working my way
all the way around the house, over and through
and into the bushes. Killing a spider, who
was in her home, not mine.

She had glaring, neon orange rays
on her abdomen, like an alien death's head.

Thinking, near the end, "I think I only love
wild plants,
that grow and thrive without being tended."

Thinking all along, maybe it was the weeds I love.

Work done, gloves sweat through in patches like
cow spots, standing back and looking at the
now-tamed hedge, I think: I bet this whole thing

could be a weed if we let it.