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So strange.
To have something
so young
so nascent
so barely rising from the earth
that nonetheless
expands to fill a space.
Fresh leaves, young shoots
rising and reaching
towards the warmth of sun.
Encouraged by coaxing,
water and attention.
So young, so new
and yet the promise of
what can be,
might be,
could be,
should be,
shows in the spreading green.
Perhaps that was the problem.
Rather than fill a space
these things are meant to
flower, enhance and beautify
a complete thing already there.
But what of the garden?
It must first begin as a
cleared space.
I had thought the space cleared,
but the remnants of weeds
dormant over winter
warmed by sun and loosened by
the rapid heat of an early spring
sprang to life.
My impatience tells me
to yank,
rake,
attack the weeds and tear them loose.
To do so means leaving deep roots
that merely will grow again
stronger and more insidious.
A small voice tells me,
patience.
What will be will be.
Because it already is.
The determination of
where it shall go
already set by nature.
Let it be.
Let it go.
Only time will tell.