Garden

In the ruined garden it is my mother
I grieve for, her attempt year after year
to keep order, to keep up appearances. 
I spent wet summer mornings weeding our narrow yard
before the noon heat struck, while
my mother hung out the wash, out of sight.
Squatting among her morning glories and nasturtium,
I pulled up what had sprouted overnight, their roots
fragrant with evening rain. I gathered in my hands
what was unwanted and wild, learning to distinguish
what to love, to discard. Working on my knees
around the carefully arranged boulders growing
soft, dark moss would teach me discipline,
to know what endures. Yet by mid-August
I couldn’t keep up with the daily crop of weeds,
and each summer my mother gave in
in silence. Now in my own garden
nothing I plant takes hold, only this
unasked-for bounty of weeds.  Each evening
I take in this bitter harvest, this weeding out of
what is too unruly in me, this knowing that
it will be there again tomorrow, regardless.