Of Stones and Weeds

I could rake these stones.
Free these tiny weeds
which my feeble fingers fumble to grab
and tweeze out. 
Yes, with a rake,
I could disturb the harmony
of stones, free the weeds—

But no.  

I have had enough of stones.
I’ve enough of their weight 
placed upon me.
I’ve carried the tonnage of stone
from place to place,
lived under it,
barely breathing through years,
lived decades encased within a sarcophagus 
of other’s demands and expectations,
all shattered now in lovely shards
left in the distance behind me.

No, I will leave these stones undisturbed.
They will not take up my time.
There are other ways to weed,
and should the weeds take the stones,
there is beauty to be found in the wildness of weeds.