If I suppose my mind a garden, what do I earn in weeding?

From heaven and land or from a can seeps nourishment to the roots of all the seeds I planted.

And if the bed of soil I have is poor, I’ll by all means amend it.

What blooms do grow will be cut and shown to encourage more anew.

And if from my fruits, I can’t begrudge, the inadvertent feeding of a squirrel or bird or two.

But of the weeds that won’t retreat, invasively proceeding, a tasteless anadem.

I pull. I cut. I poison. I’d be no less prosperous to beg them leave, each ill-entangled stem.