To rid the grass of weed, to get
The whole root,
Thick, tangled, takes a strong mind
And desire - to make clean, make pure.
The weed, tough
As the rock it leaps against,
Unless plucked to the last
Live fiber
Will plunge up through dark again.
The weed also has the desire
To make clean,
Make pure, there against the rock.
Susan Porterfield, Lucien Stryk (1993). “Zen, poetry, the art of Lucien Stryk”, Swallow Pr
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