Sometimes I’d like to lift up my roots
Like the hem of a skirt
And waltz off
Instead of endlessly pruning and weeding
Pruning and weeding
Forever and on.
Sometimes I’d like to rinse worry from my hands
Like mud from a dog
And shake dry.
But living is as much in the roots and worry
As it is in the waltz
And finding joy amongst the mud
Is the object of the game
So I’ll stay, and play
And claim my reward
In a million mundane acts of love
Which wriggle untidily amongst my roots
And through my mud-drenched fur.