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.
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Author:
Quemis (
Offline) - Published: May 1st, 2022 09:57
- Comment from author about the poem: ...
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 39
- Users favorite of this poem: arqios, Doggerel Dave
Offline)
Comments4
Good write Q. I didn't know I was in your garden! lol.
Thanks Orchidee!!!
Orch, I was gonna say the same thing... (-:
Your precise descriptions, almost technical language, and the short intense format of your lyrics remind me a bit of John Donne. A fine commentary on the weeds among us!
High praise!!
Ask not for whom the bell tolls.
For when it tolls, it tolls for weed!
Hahaha
I was the gardener in the garden! Or was I the weed?! lol.
You all are so kind.
When I wrote this, I am the Gardner, and the garden, and the weed believe it or not.
🙂
I was out of action when you posted this. now gratefully found by accident.....
Neat and clear....fun also.
Thank you!
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