After a rain,
the weeds yield
to the gentlest tug,
even the deep-rooted dock
& the brittle rhizomes
of brome grass:
they let go, they give up
their fistfuls of dirt to
a few hard shakes,
& for at least
one morning out of
all those that are left to me
it feels as if I am winning
this tug-of-war
with the earth.