Press play and then read.
Artist: Andrew Bird
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: