Life is so dear

What seeds like thoughts or dreams
lay dormant near Walden pond?
I’ve wondered as I weeded.

All the while I’m wary
of the red winged black bird
wavering near the bulrushes,
a constant threat in my garden.
Like the voles they are wriggling rascals
that vex me.

Pondering the uncultivated plants
those considered noxious, were
they pulled by Thoreau’s own hand?
Weeds are real, as are flowers.
Worthy and hardy fellows each has it’s age
and sometime it’s hard to tell which is which.

Through thickets and brambles
we create our own paths of exploration,
I suppose we all crave order
within our own designs.

For me there is nothing I want more
than to lay here and watch
clouds roll by, tumbleweeds in the air.
I'll save order for another day...