Meditation

My garden
full of weeds from
Fall and earliest Spring
calls to me. I hear
the quietest of pulls, sigh, circular
breath.

The beat-up Buddha statue, the angel who watches quietly,
the trellis choked with brown, crispy leaves.
They leave no messages for me anyway.

The red-headed woodpecker who demands more more
sunflower seeds and
waits impatient, for summer's abundance of bugs
perches on a nearby tree and flits his wings.

I cannot bring myself to pull and neaten
and organize rows
of perky flowers.  This Spring,
the weeds seem more loving
than hopeful busy, demanding flowers.

I will pull them all up, plant grey
rocks and
small bonsai trees and tan sand.
But not today.