It grew.
Noxious, pestilent
turning and twisting.
Unseen, underground,
wrapping around and through.
Searching for the perfect spot,
the right time,
the vulnerable position to commandeer,
to choke,
to destroy.
Mortal triumph.


The descent.
First, poison to wither, tame,
not eradicate.
Then, masterful hands,
growing life.
Snipping, digging, rooting out
the sardonic grip.


The rains came.
Awakening the stillness,
nurturing, rekindling.
Flushing away the fear.
Her lavender flags,
stately and resilient,
beckoning me back to the soil.


It’s time to plant.
To grow strong.
To be nourished.
To be alive.






Author’s Note:
I wrote this poem several years ago as I was recovering from radiation treament and cancer surgery. I am a gardener and I was feeling ready to plant again. The gentle spring rains ushering in the blooms of my mother-in-law’s purlple iris inspired me to write. My biggest hurdle in that garden were the weeds. Nothing would kill them, just like radiation would only shrink my cancer and then it would need to be cut out.At the time of my surgery, I didn’t know that my surgeon was pregnant. Only months after in one of our follow-ups did I notice. I am here today because of her skill.