I lean on my shovel and survey the field after harvest.

Way back in Spring, I had set out to clear the field of blackberries.

At first I snipped them down, I trimmed the whole field.

My clothes stained purple and my fingers bled blue.

And they came back anyway.

Then I dug. I hacked and excavated and tugged til I realized knotted roots permeated the entire field,

 who knows how deep.

And they came back anyway.

This year too I surveyed my soul and saw thorns in my heart—

a lack of love, rash judgements, deep resentments

And oh no, these too tangled deep underground, a lifetime’s battle.

A Friend loaned me some weed-killer.

To me it fell each day to apply it to fruits and leaves,

To dig up and burn up the roots.

But it wasn’t me who killed the weeds.

Now, a small plot of land is cleared amidst the sea of blackberries.

A satisfying year’s work yields at least one spot of pure soil, ready for new healthy growth.

If not bountiful, it’s at least fit to be seeded,

With the rest of the field yet to be cleansed.