I once wished that words sprung from my garden
with the hasty diligence
of those cursed and raging weeds
I’d celebrate and appoint the toad a poet-warden.
Then over time I began to understand
that words spring from my garden
and every time I get out my spade
I have a new poem in my hand.
My garden begets words just as truly
as it shoots out those horrid weeds
and this has been true for the human family
ever since the weeds became unruly.
So every time I plant another round
of thriving and beautiful snapdragons
I’ll remember that words and weeds
share one thing in common
at my garden, they both abound.
MJN [This poem of mine appeared previously in the print journal WestWard Quarterly, Summer 2012]