I don’t want to write
or pay bills, or answer email
or help a friend whose house flooded
from a burst washing machine hose
I don’t want to cook breakfast
or entertain guests or make phone calls
or collect proxy votes for our upcoming neighborhood meeting
I don’t want to hike up the hill or
go for a bike ride
I don’t even want to make love to my husband

I just want to weed

I want to step outside with my little trowel
I want to kneel on cold ground
and feel sun on my back
I want to empty my mind to everything
but the sound of steel piercing
the surface of black earth
The twist of wrist pulling up the invasives
from between my lovely bunch grasses
The crumble of moist soil between my fingers
The mindless obsession of the next weed
the next excavation
The satisfaction of the expansive
laborious
baby steps
of Spring gardening