I have been dreaming of nettles.
On the edge of my awakening
they are there in my garden
needing attention before they choke the hydrangeas.
I know they need to be pulled from the root
so my dreaming self looks for a tool
because even if you grip from the base
the roots stay entrenched
and the nettles survive.
And where in this dream are my gardening gloves
so my fragile hands are protected from the stinging bristles?
Every morning, when the soil is moist from dew
they creep into my dreams and I'm pushed outside to take care of them.
Where is my tool?
Where are my gloves?
So many nettles.
Before you ask:
I will not be brewing them into a soothing tea.
There is nothing soothing about these nettles
popping up again and again
pushing me to work on my knees
to pull up those roots
to avoid the stings;
to get up early
to face the dawn
to protect the hydrangeas.
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I can’t help but read this gorgeous poem as a metaphor for what encroaches on and tries to choke our writing voices. Sometimes it’s what we want to grow that needs less attention and what gets in the way that needs more tending. A fitting poem this last day. Love it.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Glenda, for your kind compliment, for reading closely and looking for the deeper meaning - it means so much!
DeleteI like how you told this small moment not while in the garden but as a morning dream, a time when the actions of a day are so hopeful. I like how you weaved in the why and the tools needed. And I agree with Glenda, it works well as a metaphor for us as writers, too! Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sally. I wrote some of these lines in the dawn hours, then fell back asleep... not at all how I usually write. So I knew there was something aching to come out.
DeleteBeautiful imagery throughout, and can’t help but agree with Glenda: there’s more here, lurking under the surface. You are a gorgeous poet!! Xo
ReplyDeleteOh, Nawal, thank you. This poem represents some serious work... I will keep it at the top of my editing pile the next few weeks.
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