I am pulling weeds. Rip, rip, rip. Weeding where pavers butt and crack, where the beaten strength of human engineering gives way to wiggle; to root snake and trunk push… to Earth’s breath.
My feet are surrounded by endless rectangles, like I’m sewn in with patchwork trousers, imitating the cellulose structure of plants. Do the plants feel the lug of glucose monomers – those heavy, hexagonal cords?
No. Here, with the sun on my legs and flies around my ears, the night’s thought prisons are uprooted. In tessellations I am strangely freed.
Toadstool with your tiny conical roof tinged with Earth’s pink certainty. Like this we are blooded