In the Weeds

I am comfortable lying

in the weeds

looking at the sky

be it warm summer or musty fall.

I like watching the bugs

crawl, the flight patterns

of butterflies and bees, chewing

stems and smelling the grass-

earthy scent around me, contrails

etching across turbulent clouds

unfolding images locked

in my head. I listen

for any sounds: trains, voices,

planes, the occasional car

driving by, barking dogs,

chain saws, the thumping of

my heart, the wind in the trees

and in my chest.

No one can see me there

buried flat as a fawn.

Sometimes I’m with a friend,

but it’s best by myself

because the silence is all mine.

Those who jump to disagree

with my proclamation of loving it

“in the weeds” probably haven’t

been there face down

with the beetles and ants,

eye-level to voles, then rolling

over to watch hawks hover

in thermals against the blue.

I guess to those figurative souls

“in the weeds” is to be lost—

“at sea” or at least “in a funk”—

certainly it has to be an inability

to act decisively. Of course, for me

that’s the most interesting place

to be, literally in the here and now

of this constantly transforming

magical trip, that wonderland

we paid more attention to as kids—

uncertainty—call me Peter Pan

if you will, but I love it

deep in the weeds.

 

Mark Gibbons

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