A poem by Marie Donnelly


Why is it that I feel so satisfied
when my fingers are pressed around the root?
(I’ve already removed the fragile earth surrounding the weed.)
And when I begin to
p u l l
it feels like I am evacuating a dream.

Afterall, didn’t that weed have
a need to put down roots?
I guess we all did.

Well, anyway…
Its plans, ambitions, desires
lay there in a pile with the others.

But what does it say about me
that this is where I would rather be,
(gingerly tucked between coreopsis and river stone,
clothing soiled and sticking to sweaty skin)
than making dinner, washing dishes, folding clothes?
Such domesticities.
Weren’t they the dream a few short years ago?

Now I purposely let my earth-clod boots
track meaningful mud into the house
and the dirt I refuse to clean from underneath my fingernails
will certainly clash with the dress I am wearing to dinner tonight,
causing concern among well-intentioned friends.

About the Author:

Marie Donnelly is a high school English teacher and college counselor who has given up cooking and cleaning to care for her houseplants. A mother of three, she sometimes is successful at instilling appreciation for poetry in her children and students. She lives with her husband and best friend (he is the same person) in northeastern Pennsylvania.

Poetry Breakfast is an online journal publishing poetry and short plays.
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