Weed Killer

The nylon lead whirred, whacked and smacked

the weeds. I was lost in the noise of neat edgings,

watching as each weed’s arms were lopped off

in terrifying speed without empathy.

I gutted them until the driveway was presentable.

Moving swiftly with precision as the wind echoed

in my ears. I pushed the whipper snipper beneath

bushes for yet another murderous blast, peering

into the darkness of isolation and aloneness the wind

answered, “yes, you are alone.”

I felt its words like a sharp sting across my face,

a jolt in my mind, though my heart accepted it all

with its new found courage of…“there is nothing

you can’t do, even murdering weeds.”

It’s just that there are some moments when the presence

of one is alarmingly distinct, when I feel like I am a ghost

even to myself.

Yet alone is not lonely, it is a mere state of being.

A matter of adjustment, the cleaning up of edges,

the eradication of weeds so flowers bloom.

A presentation that needs no bouquet nor ribbon

binding it to another making it pretty to the world.

It just is. Alone is a single rose whose thorns say beware

I unfurl to all my heart. Fragile, brave and ever so dangerous

with independence.

Once more I fire up my whipper snipper, it whirs

a noise, flick flacking the weeds to an annoying wind.

Cold and abrasive with its speech, I ignore

its ruminations of the obvious and persist

and its barbarous jolt will be replaced by

another thought in my mind. A certain spirit

of freedom as I lop yet another arm from an

invading weed.


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