Tearing Out the Nettles

My love is not

a flower, it’s a weed.

Line of schmaltz

aside, a bloom

is an affront to

what I hold.

Its vivid scent &

colour

fall away

amid the gusts,

of 50 mph,

the coming of the

frost by mid-

October.

But even when it’s

warm

it lets you down.

Sags in burning

sun, when the kisses

from the clouds

are soaking wet,

too much lust at

once;

while the weed

remains devout,

its crab

amid the grass,

its lion

of the lawn, enduring

in the breath

of bounding child,

its seed & float of

white—landing

by impatiens—

which have never

learned to wait

beyond the freeze,

winter’s cashing

out.

Look beneath

the soil

and I’m there. Rooted

to the heart of

sister earth,

her ever-faithful

zeal, unequivocally

arisen, again & again &

again,

without some

caveat,

the fear

that you will kill it

where it stands.

Andreas Gripp

April 11, 2025

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