I stoop to loosen a thread of wild clover woven tight
through my spotty lawn, and recall the morning
I knelt on my small patch of yard and pulled
stretch after stretch of unwanted stem, made room
for grass in the barren spaces, my belly eight months full,
pulling, pulling at home in the Jersey August heat.
I vowed to yank out every last bit. I rarely tug
at the thin tendrils these days—I no longer need
a soft surface for kiddie pools and yard toys.
My lawn’s future is short now, as I welcome
the spread and creep of native flowers,
but the green threads winding across the earth remain
a portal into the summer before motherhood, before I
learned that disruption and love equal joy, when I tended my garden
with the careful plans and ferocious hope of a new parent.
