I stab the weeder
Into sterile ground,
A small stretch of dirt
Watered by sweat.
This is not a garden.
Only the handle is visible
At the weed’s base
Where the roots
Begin their descent deep.
I store the trash bins here.
With leverage in hand,
I pull the tool towards me,
Upturning more earth
And the anchored pest.
Another eviction served.
2 comments:
meh... This is what I did today.
I actually really like the last line of the first stanza. I do this crap in my garden every weekend, but I like how you make it clear.
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