Ah, the weeds that grow in a Garden Untended.
Didn’t I just yank a few out
As I was passing by the other day?
Certainly, pulling a couple should have helped?
Where did this ugly jungle come from?
Their roots are long and thick and coiled.
Where are my flowers?
Their delicate fragrance is not to be found.
I anxiously search to assure myself that they still exist.
Deep within the mass of angry, threatening growth
Are the tiny, white wild flowers
Of hope and fresh joy
Waiting patiently amongst the chaos.
And so the work begins.
Each weed extracted is painful to
Endure with their thorns and clutching roots.
But, the Garden must be cleared
Of suffocating weeds
To allow hope and joy to grow and breathe.
And so I toil.
Didn’t I have to do this before?
Yes, I did. Now, again.
And I remember the beauty of the Cleared Garden
With only the fresh, white wild flowers
I must not allow my Garden to be ransacked thus, again.
I must be diligent
And recognize and banish the weeds
As they creep in before they own
My Beautiful Garden.