With strokes deliberate and slow
the gardener displaces weeds
that in between the onion row
would run amok and and cast their seeds.
The weeds are pretty on their own
it's just that here they're out of place,
the seedlings grown for food will drown
'neath mantle green, without a trace
And thus, the hoe will cut them through
and root from soil be surely drawn
to wilt beneath the springtime sun,
sure death before the morrow morn.
The pity is that, if allowed
the weeds would grow to flower full;
the pheasant's eye and pimpernel,
cleavers, crucifix, dead-nettle.
each in it's place a pretty plant,
indicating healthy soil
but just for being where it is,
the gardener will surely spoil.
And so adjacent to my rows,
the ranks resultant of my toil,
I like to leave, just for the weeds,
untended, careless, virgin soil.
© Rob King 2013