Nettles grow tall just behind the backyard fence,
out of reach—all season—growing on the sneak.
I hear them scuff and sway across the wood.
I haven’t the heart to cut them dead.
It happens every year,
the same tacit alliance—
the same wordless exchange
of life, death and resurrection.
I peruse catalogs of false potential,
eye the seductive carnage-to-be.
Each page more raging
with chi than the one before.
Digging at the roots,
turning under cover crops,
I bend to the bed, rotate and plow.
Play at the putting off—
the inevitable prize of rot.
Though every adolescent sprout is pleasant,
congenial, a charmer full of fibs
and propaganda, I can’t help but ask;
When does the real work begin?
When does the sky give leave
and let reason fall to the ground?
Why can’t I just say it?
I do it for the loss, the fragility,
the decay so achingly sought
and the bloom never as satisfying
as the falling away.