The War at Home

As early as April the battle begins

when winter’s white blanket won’t cover my sins,

which surface as shriveled gray clumps in my garden,

which I failed to dig up, so they got a pardon.

All during the dark days those sinister plants

were watching and planning a springtime advance,

their rhizomes were networking, roots resting well,

and every tough taproot descended to hell.

These dandelions, thistles, lambsquarters and spurge,

and any perennial weed with an urge,

could topple the order I’ve tried to create

of blooms for the beauty and leaves for the plate.

The plant experts tell me that I need not fear,

just spray on glyphosate and kill roots this year.

But I can’t quite ignore Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma,

and no backyard eden’s worth risking a coma.

Thus, any old weed that I pull or I smother,

sneers at me, “I’ll see you next season, you mother!”

I’ll freely admit it’s a one-sided war

and I know that nature will even the score.

I guess I could give in to wildness that grows,

and not care if neighbors will turn up their nose,

but I’d still remember my untidy room

and how being lazy would bring my Dad gloom.

Ah, weeds are eternal and my life is brief.

It’s easier to pull them than give up my grief.

tfg 04.28.2025