Azaleas and Wild Onions



I’m in my Azalea bed digging out – again – wild onions that continue to
multiply there year after year.
When a hawk flew into the house and was killed
I buried her in this bed,
rested her on dried Sage,
planted an Azalea next to her,
placed a beautiful stone over her plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
When my brother died, Mom and I scattered his ashes
in a hidden clearing in the woods behind her house.
We planted Azaleas to adorn the earth
next to a beautiful stone I placed on his plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
Sometimes the sorrowful fragrance of this planet’s progeny is just too much.
Year after year I’ve uprooted the sad scented things.
I’ve covered them over with heavy mulch – leaves and bark-
so the sun can’t warm them, I believe,
so they can’t grow bigger, I think,
so they can’t multiply, I hope.
Still in the spring, wretchedness again grows up around the bushes of pink and purple joy.
Then I discovered I could eat them –
those tart, toothsome, allium canadense.
So now, I snack on them while weeding,
knowing that ants farm aphids, and flowers seduce bees
because they live in mutual symbiotic relationship.
And if I eat bitters, sweetness will by and by appear on my plate
from the soil of the One Earth
from the One Garden.
Where grow both wild onions and Azaleas.




Three Poems - Karen Corinne Herceg
Jewel Weed
 

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Saturday, September 23, 2017

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