Weeds

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I can feel the sun beating on the back of my neck. 

As I move my hand towards it, the heat radiates and I know… burned.

A tilt of the head left and you see the remains in the row.

There will be no wishes blown to the wind from there.

A tilt of the head right and you see all of the possibilities still left: a tricycle, cake for dinner, that she would “like like” me.

Wishes of joy prayed on soft white seeds now floating through the air.

A glance downward to the living green nestled in the breathing black earth.

Should it be torn asunder?

Ripped from its roots to give life to the others close by?

Should it be mangled from the possibility of it giving life itself?

Life from wishes born of sorrow, grief, and pain;

Prayers which touch the despair found only in a desperate soul:

Healing from sickness, release from abuse, freedom from depression, liberation from that which holds us captive, whether it be self-inflicted or from outside oppressors.

The words, “Not Today” echo through the hot and sticky air, and so I rise up.

Wiping my forehead of the liquid salt which has accumulated, I remember, “By the sweat of your brow.”

Should I continue? Should I keep sweating to someday eat the harvest?

My eyes dart left and right.

I see not a nuisance, inconvenience, or malice, but hopes, dreams, and prayers.

I kneel back down, fight the ache of a hard day’s work.

My hands do not reach for another dandelion but come together.

I remember the words I learned in that loving community long ago.

They seem appropriate now, so on a whim, I utter them aloud so only the weeds can hear,

Our God, who art in heaven…

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