Marriage
My husband kneels on the still-cold ground
plucking out cardamine hirsuta by hand.
Next, he’ll spread pre-emergent to prevent
new sprouts. I didn’t even know the name
of this plant until he made it his enemy.
What’s a weed but a plant in the wrong place?
Unwanted, expanding into another’s territory.
“Invasive,” the gardeners say, “weed them out.
Protect the natives who belong here.”
How can you obliterate a plant called fairy wings
or lady’s mantle? Even my husband’s nemesis,
hairy bittercress, is mild, not bitter to the taste.
I love the tangle of periwinkle holding the hillside
in place, flares of fireweed after a forest fire,
a cup of dandelion leaf tea to soothe my stomach.
I’m grateful for the willy-nillyness of plants
in my own small plot in the back yard. A chaos
of peppermint, spearmint, chickweed, horsetails,
and chives—their tops sheared off by rabbits.
Every spring, new plants appear and I welcome them.
In this season of burgeoning, my husband and I
have called a truce. Marked out our territories.
Slugs, rabbits, deer emerge from winter seclusion
and make themselves at home—unrestrained
by boundaries, taking what they need.
MARGARET CHULA is the author of fourteen books of poetry, most recently Firefly Lanterns: Twelve Years in Kyoto. Read more.