Rhubarb and the revolution followed by a comment

I stepped outside this morning and Bam!
I smelled the smell of green life!
(Of course it is more than a smell,
But a spirit and a spell.)
For a few moments
The green was breathing for me.

Don’t worry about breathing.
Just stand here,
I’ll take care of the rest.

My wife asks me to go down to the garden
And get 8 stalks of rhubarb.
I walk down in my slippers.
The grass is dewy-wet.
(I need to mow,
I need to get gas,
I need to stop thinking about mowing . . .)
I arrive at the rhubarb
Way at the back of the garden
And kneel.
I harvest 8 stalks,
All thick and scooped lengthwise
Tinted red on one side.

I remove a few tiny snails
From the leaves
Which are toxic to humans.
But the stems are very tasty,
More bitter than sweet
So my wife counters that
With just the right amount of maple syrup.

Where is the Matrix now?
This early chore has unplugged me.
I am an old Neo
Making my way back to the house.

Right now the algorithms of the fucked up universe
Cannot touch me with a ten foot pole.

I have a young friend, a father,
Who is raising two daughters, 5 and 7.
When it is time for them to clean up
He doesn’t tell them to put their things away,
He tells them to give their things away.

Perhaps the revolution has begun.
The first line in this poem is from an email I wrote to a friend who works with plants (especially certain plants) shamanically. What happened was just like I describe: As soon as I stepped outside and breathed, Bam!, I was caught up in a green spell, and was powerless to do anything but stand there and allow the green life force to enter my lungs and cells. So there I stood, powerless and grateful. This person that I emailed came to mind because I knew he would know what I was feeling. It was while I was standing outside and breathing that my wife called to me from the kitchen asking me to get some rhubarb. The “journey” of that errand into the green world of our back yard triggered the cascade of associations that contributed to the rest of the poem.