who owns this place?

Dirt ground into the knees of my pants.
Piles and piles of weeds, the whole garden is weeds
The unwanted ones: small yellow flowers and big white fluffy pompoms
stars of spiky leaves hugging low to the ground
lovely smelling mint and acrid onion
so many others, indescrible, prolific

I cut the grass and leave it to mulch on the lawn, to brown quickly.
I leave the chard that grew all winter to harvest in a month or so
Jay says not to turn too deep or I’ll release the good carbon, the good nitrogen
I plant those small red marigolds my boys brought me
Like a light, laughter, choosing them over another
I play favorites here, seeming to create order while yearning for the wildness

Of the small cave that opens in the middle of the grass
We feed it dirt, stones, bricks trying to fill it up but it opens,
A yawning and hungry old river bed in the middle of the lawn
Reminding us we don’t really own this place,
The old river bed does, the giant fir tree does, the squirrels and jays do,
The weeds own this place more than I do