ON OUR OWN GROUND

each springtime and summer
we go our rounds, grubbing out

pervasive maple sprouts, glistening slugs
the evil elegance of bindweed

to open way
for what flowers or what bears would harvest

each repetition its own mixture
of success and disappointment

* * *

as my Lady of the Fabric Bins explains
the palette of the tongue

its savory and sweet
variations of wine tannin or bite

torches in our smoking garden twilight
with charcoal, glowing and ready

Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
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