The Garden

— Karen Llewellyn

The evening clouds lie in plump furrows,
Pink and gray in the sunset
Against the last of the blue sky beyond.
The breeze grasps at winter,
But clutches only fall,
Tossing leaves along the curbs,
Tumbling the golden debris over lawns.
Dusk throws a hood over the day,
Stifling my efforts against obstreperous weeds.
It’s a never-ending battle.
I stand upon the ramparts of my raised beds
And shake my trowel-sword at the oxalis
Which, like sin, is with us always.
Evening has fallen,
And I collapse, defeated,
Swearing to gird myself for war again tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I will get to the root of this.

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