A Sunday Poem: The Weeds

Press play and then read.

Artist: Andrew Bird

Album: Echolocations


The Weeds

Sundays will always tease

As long as Mondays mean work

Sundays will mean the end of time

Or the end of a kind of time

That feels personal and possible.

The rain came for weeks

And gave relief to the thirsty soil

And captured the dust

And brought rivers down suburban streets

Too much water at once will not bring recovery.

Water will simply flow downhill instead of down

Into the ground.

The weeds came in a rush.

Yellow flowers at their tops

Masking their unwanted nature

The weeds begged for attention

Golden growth in late January

Family and friends are frozen by winter

But we escaped from the chill wind

And now find ourselves with a parcel to tend.

The weeds are easy to gather and yank.

I squat and pile them into a mound.

I think of the way this backyard, filled with flowers and birds and sunshine,

I think of the way this yard was back in the ’30s,

When this house was new.

I think of the way back and of the ’60s,

When weed was flowering all over our culture.

I try to imagine the people tending the land of this Bay

Before it had a name on a map.

Of the Ohlone, who were first and now forgotten.

Of the rush for gold and the sprouting of towns and populations from the Midwest.

The children of the Dust Bowl children now entering Berkeley Bowl,

With its magnificent fruits.

The way we live now, not noticing each other’s eyes often enough.

The way most of us read now.

The way we refuse to allow ourselves to lose time, get lost in time.

Time. Weeds. Sundays.

Allow yourself to get lost in time today.

If only for a spell.


The power of instrumental music:





On Being:


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One thought on “A Sunday Poem: The Weeds

  1. Tony Press says:

    Nice, both words and music, and the wonderful closing: “Allow yourself to get lost in time today.

    If only for a spell.

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