I wake
At
Night,
Worried
About
The
Weeds,
Not
The
Greatest
Of
My
Needs,
But
Knowing
They
Are
Growing,
Growing,
And
Casting
Spores
To
Make
Scores
More.
My
Neighbor
In
This
Space,
A
Narrow
Place,
Only
Has
A
Clump
Of
Roots
From
An
Old
Tree
Stump,
But
Across
The
Walk,
I bloom
Like
Eden
Reseeded.
Shall
I work
And
Sweat
To
Pull
Them
Up,
Or
Let
Them
Grow,
To
Possible
Regret?
And
Yet,
By
And
By,
They
Will
Die.
Easier
Then
To
Deal
With
What
Is
Bound
To
Come
Again.
Even
Now,
Predictable
As
Sin,
They
Are
Growing,
Growing,
Midnight
Agitation
Sowing.