Weeding the Woods

Paradise Hill. Late spring. Everywhere the garlic mustard “invasive.” I wander eye-entangled woods. Bend pluck toss. Every step is a step, lively. No way to eradicate this stuff—greed hate delusion—best hope “get it to behave.” Blackflies sometimes “go down the wrong pipe.” Steep hillslope, thick birch oak maple. Untrodden ways. Undiscovered seedbanks. Nothing stays buried. Devonian earth closet. Bend pluck toss. Nose in duff. Hermit columbine in thrushy bloom. Violets fade. Canopies thicken. Newborn fawn cries in distress. Invisible airwaves. Elsewhere, never far. Teacher!-Teacher!-Teacher!  Bend pluck toss. There’s another one. And another. “Do not treat all this as other.” What then this weeding, this lost-again always a-smolder your land my land bursting into flame?

Catskill Mountains, End of May 2020