There’s no rest for the weary weeder.

“How dare you write poems
when I’m full of weeds?”
pouts her neglected garden
under an uncertain sky.

Weedy flowers of spring
welcome honeybees
with golden nectar
to feed a growing hive.

Dandelions tunnel
through asphalt;
thistles and shotweeds defy
layers of cedar mulch
to seek sunlight and warmth.

Floaty, feathery seeds cloud the sky,
like tiny umbrellas —
weightless, wild, free —
aloft on a soft breeze.

Future weeds, she thinks,
and only a poet to pull them.

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