Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Poem of the day


After a rain,
the weeds yield
to the gentlest tug,
bent grass blades
even the deep-rooted dock
& the brittle rhizomes
of brome grass:

they let go, they give up
their fistfuls of dirt after
a few hard shakes,

& for at least
one morning out of
all those that are left to me

it feels as if I am winning
this tug-of-war
with the earth.
- Dave Bonta
(@ via negativa)

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