weeds

Raw fingertips—

I have been pulling weeds for hours

from the miniature dunes of this

lakeside volleyball court.

Sweat drips down the backs of my legs

and sand fills my eyes.

I can taste the earth

as wind blows dust from

the unwelcome and uprooted plants

into my mouth.

I do not think that pulling weeds

is a very important task.

And I am not sure if I

am even doing it right,

but I continue to plunge

my hands into the dirt.

Fingers searching—

groping for a bit of flora

that I can,

close-fisted,

rip out of the ground

and throw into the fire.