by Paula Earnest

Pulling Weeds

There’s something about pulling weeds
that grow wild as tangled words

Unsightly nettles of letters twisted
together on vine-like lines that
string along unrhymed

They sprout needles like senseless thoughts
popped out in purple thistle tops

Unwanted words, razor edged
bare barbs that sting and prick and poke
like pointed burrs that hurt on feet
or hearts once stepped upon

Mixed up—messed up—worthless words
you pick and prune and yank and cut
wrenching weedy afterthoughts and
second guesses from the ground

Dig down your strong nails
Claw into hard dirt
Sort through bad seeds
Pull up buried roots
Toss out unwelcome invading beliefs
of old stories or wasted words
like the dead leaves they are

Make room—
New flowers will bloom enough
like the right word
bad choices often choke off




Lovely Waiting Stars

As day greets night,

one bowing to the other,

there is a moment when

day is not day and

night is not night but

a pause between,

as two hands touch

in silent prayer.


It is then

when clouds seep

into the porous sky

deepening plum to sapphire.


Before darkness rises.

Before lightness fades.

Quiet surrounds

the arriving moon.

In whispers she calls

all the lovely waiting stars.