Rootbound

I bent to pull a weed,

just one, it seemed.

But the taproot was a fist,

clenched in the damp earth.

Then I saw it, the whole bed,

a green riot.

No petunias, not for years.

Just this tangled, creeping thing

that flourished in the absence.

Mark. Two summers, maybe three.

That's how long it takes, doesn't it?

For the wild to reclaim the edge,

for the soft ground to harden,

and the quiet neglect to become

something solid you can't just pull free.