The nylon lead whirred, whacked and smacked
the weeds. I was lost in the noise of neat edgings,
watching as each weed’s arms were lopped off
in terrifying speed without empathy.
I gutted them until the driveway was presentable.
Moving swiftly with precision as the wind echoed
in my ears. I pushed the whipper snipper beneath
bushes for yet another murderous blast, peering
into the darkness of isolation and aloneness the wind
answered, “yes, you are alone.”
I felt its words like a sharp sting across my face,
a jolt in my mind, though my heart accepted it all
with its new found courage of…“there is nothing
you can’t do, even murdering weeds.”
It’s just that there are some moments when the presence
of one is alarmingly distinct, when I feel like I am a ghost
even to myself.
Yet alone is not lonely, it is a mere state of being.
A matter of adjustment, the cleaning up of edges,
the eradication of weeds so flowers bloom.
A presentation that needs no bouquet nor ribbon
binding it to another making it pretty to the world.
It just is. Alone is a single rose whose thorns say beware
I unfurl to all my heart. Fragile, brave and ever so dangerous
Once more I fire up my whipper snipper, it whirs
a noise, flick flacking the weeds to an annoying wind.
Cold and abrasive with its speech, I ignore
its ruminations of the obvious and persist
and its barbarous jolt will be replaced by
another thought in my mind. A certain spirit
of freedom as I lop yet another arm from an