Weeds

The weeds are coming back.

They stand defiant in the grass with blooms
like tiny pastel flags.
They push their way through
mulch and fence, unfurling leaves
as if to taunt.
They wind and grasp and climb their way
to light and life.

The weeds are coming back.

Tomorrow perhaps
I will search out where it was
I may have left those garden gloves,
perhaps pull up a few and pile their weedy selves
in little heaps around the yard,
making refuge for the bugs and suchlike things to find.

Today I’ll settle back, soak up the sinking sun,
tip my glass a time or two
and celebrate the loss
of control.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

© Karen Kleis –  All Rights Reserved

You are free to reblog or share a link to this poem.  You are not free to copy or otherwise reprint this poem without my explicit permission.  Thank you.

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