Whose weeds these are I’m sure I know.
I’ve watched them as they sprout and grow.
No time to rest or sip a beer—
I better run and grab my hoe.
My little garden slowly clears
of undergrowth. I persevere.
My fingers blister; shoulders ache
This longest evening of the year.
I give my aching arms a shake,
Lean on my hoe to take a break.
What drudgery it is to reap
This loathsome crop, for goodness sake.
I strike each weed a killing blow
Knowing three more will soon regrow.
It is the gardener’s quid pro quo…
Those miles of rows to rake and hoe.
Copyright 2013 by Paul Fleisher