{"sf1_id":1182308,"sf2_id":"A1pj84lm","title":"Dirt Garden (poetry)","author":"Dwale","words":113,"posted_at":"2017-05-19T23:39:00.000Z","tags":["Flower","Plant","Poetry"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1182308-dirt-garden-poetry","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/A1pj84lm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/83/bc/83bc79c4-f1d7-4cb6-a5ca-c019ff91984f","description":"Pretty self-explanatory.","content":"My garden of foxtails and milk-thistle,  \nAlive and wild, more so than tended rows  \nIn growth, has died. I killed them a little,  \nThe crab-grass clumps, Datura and nettle.  \n\"Time and time, I commit these small murders,  \nTo whose benefit?\" I ask why and wonder,  \nThe scent of sap on scuffed and bloody hands.  \nIf I indwelt some luring scrap of land  \nFar from here, secluded, my own to call,  \nI would welcome these same weeds, one and all,  \nTo plant their roots in my warm, earthen roof,  \nJust they and I, with no hint of reproof,  \nAnd thank the thorns for making a hale fence,  \nThe compost for being my winter blanket.  \n  \n  \n\n"}