Ode to one-yank weeds, the maple seedling
still winged at its roots,
the unmighty oak,
the violet in spring-wet dirt
above its bundle of tubers,
even the young dandelion, eager to please.
Sometimes it’s okay to be easy.
All those seasons of digging to the hard knot
of why I would never be we,
the taproot of loneliness buried in heavy clay.
And then came you, released
into my life as if you had been planted there.
Or was it me let loose of rocky soil?

Of course, marriage is not that simple.
Later, all those broken mattocks,
that wilderness of honeysuckle in our first backyard,
the rose mallow I planted that almost took over the garden.

But you and I once plucked, remain transplanted.
Your roots to mine.