they are groaning
pushing, struggling, succeeding
in pushing the rain soaked soil to the side
their leaves opening the moment they hit cool air.
the weeds are winning,
I see them spread from morning to morning,
pushing aside the plants I love, the ones I have planted,
hopefully waiting for blooms and blossoms.
the endurers through nuclear holocaust,
through drought and desert, through snow and sleet,
they wait for the right moment and push forth.
we, the gardeners, gaze at them with wonder
and despair, our small hand tools and knee pads
at hand, we bow to them, we battle them
and we know this will be a battle
never won, only postponed.
we are the gentiles
amongst Jews, the minority,
the unknowing, the ignorant, the importance
of Moses, of Abraham,
of wicker baskets floating amongst the reeds,
of escaping through parting seas
unleavened bread grasped at the last moment.
of the need for Israel, for home.
we are white, the gentiles, the tall ones,
the ones who walk without knowing
the tragic flow of tears, of parsley dipped
in salt water