Path clearing - a little poem

It had gotten to the point where I had to step on tender shoots to get to the gate

And one day I just ripped and hacked them back
Till I could again see the boulders edging the path.


I sat on a green plastic chair, admiring the path, drinking tea,
Trying not to think about my rough amputations,

Or this so recently unwilded ridge in summer-dry, drought-dry California,
Or the wooden-walled house that protects me from fear.