There is an old weed in my garden,
Stubborn where spade cannot strike.
Its roots go untilled by my trowel,
It\'s nature unsevered by knife.
The cold of winter does not calm it,
Nor flood sate its unending thirst.
The heat of the sun only teases
The forms and the lives strangled first.
No years of my fingertips searching,
Nor bite of my trustiest tool,
Can reach to the depths where it\'s hiding;
Unravel so tangled a spool.
There is an old weed in my garden.
But I find as days come, and moons go -
Its a fight that im glad to be losing.
Ain\'t a weed if you just let it grow.