Stopped by Weeds on a Summer Morning


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