On days when I’m not at my best
I feel the urge to step outside
Breath in the air
Look at my garden
Proclaim to every weed: “Today is your day.”
They roam willy-nilly
A law unto themselves.
I have this sense they see me coming
Their roots I’m sure dig a little further in
There’s a rustle among them
For in my mind I hear them conspiring.
The Bathurst Burr arms itself
The nut grass goes a little more nutty
Their take over fantasy world is under threat.
I arrive with cutters, choppers and scrapers
I arrange them like a show of strength
My weapons against their stubbornness.
And they do fight, the burr sticks to me
I find them later on socks, shorts and shirt
My hands are calloused, a thorn or two strikes victory
As I negotiate the tangle of weeds and once proud plants.
By days end I stand triumphant
In my hands the weapons of mass destruction
The garden again is mine.
But I fantasize that deep within the soil
Seedpods containing the weed troops
Are ready and waiting for when I slacken off.
Written for: https://dversepoets.com/2016/04/12/poetics-fantasia/