Bitter seeds appear in the spring soil:
The askew look, the late arrival,
Or the icy response to a question.
You allow them to germinate.
Ignored, they yield more seeds
That scatter in the the wind.
That scatter in the the wind.
Days, weeks, years pile up.
Kids, dogs, bills, jobs, car repairs,
Bathroom renovations silt in.
The weeds keep taking root,
Birds come, eat the seeds, fly away,
Shit them out around the yard.
Soon, weeds poke up everywhere,
Choking the flower beds,
Denying their inherent elegance.
No need to pull and cultivate.
You have too much pride and hurt
To do that — until one day everywhere
Flourish weeds, weeds, weeds!
And the flower beds vanish, memories
Lost under Time’s soil, forever.
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