By Deb Lambert
As I weed and prune my way
through the wasteland of summer,
I utter an internal vow...
nothing new - just my assertion,
made annually, that next year
this section of my yard will not
be laid low by woeful neglect
while I languish indoors, reading
beside an electronic breeze.
How, in the course of a summer,
did this delightful space become
an unmitigated tangle?
If you reap what you sow, then this
must be my harvest - this weed patch
may be my fruits of October.
Insidious bindweed’s choke-hold,
its suffocating canopy
is equaled only by woodbine,
creeping and slithering beneath
the branches of “desirables,”
before flinging itself topside.
The winterberry sighed a sigh of great relief, at its liberation.
Crimson berries almost sparkled,
when released from bindweed prison
and the leaves were surprisingly green.
I beat back Japanese bamboo,
pull out burr-laden burdock,
yank out long runs of woodbine stems
and slide backwards on the onion grass.
I look ahead, estimating how long it might take to liberate
the remaining specimens,
releasing them from such wrongful
summertime imprisonment.
Waving derisively at me,
from atop barberry, rose and raspberry,
are the usual suspects.
But, my resilient golden raspberries havesurvived summer’s ravages, presenting
me with sun-warmed October fruit.
All Photos & Poetry: ©Deb Lambert 2008
