I pulled a weed from my garden last night;

it was too real to let grow. It would choke
all the other stems and start a blade-fight
between this grass and that green coquí’s croak:
So I pulled back and I surveyed my soul,
and it was vibrant and open to growth
in myself and in others, since my role
is to teach and learn, forgive and betroth:
And I tore a page later on last night
from my notebook that recounts all my dreams;
I put it in my pocket, out of sight
of the supermoon aureola’s streams:
I’ll give my soul up to pain and damage
to clear space for a true garden marriage.
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