Kathleen Flenniken

What I Learn Weeding

A dandelion root can grow two feet long.
You don’t forget unearthing one—shocking
as a donkey in an old French postcard.

But mostly, love, we pull their heads off
to achieve our shallow vision of a garden.
The root cleaves to the darkness,

the same dark that sets our hips to rocking,
to burrowing into the other’s body
or slapping it away. Briefly a stillness,

a long waiting to rise. Respiration. Sleep.
Until, without nurturing, a green shoot,
a thumb raked lightly across a thigh

and we succumb to this buried fury, this fever
to reseed. Oh, subterranean marriage
of root and soil! Oh, saw-blade leaf

and sunburst of maddened flower!

One Response to “Kathleen Flenniken”

  1. wasteland says:

    I enjoyed the half-meanings in this one.
    Particularly in the last full stanza.
    “This fever/ to reseed…”
    Surely, there are countless poems that connect nature to sexuality, but for whatever reason I thought this one stood out.