The weeds are tall enough to hide the dog.
It’s Spring and time to mow and mow and mow,
and when I’m finished, when they’re finally mowed,
in just a couple days the yard will look
again like some abandoned wilderness;
the sort of place you would expect to find
the living dead or rabid crocodiles
just waiting to attack and drag you off.
The perfumed irises cannot compete
with weeds that could be five feet tall in Spring,
and so I mow and mow and mow some more.
It’s Spring. It’s allergy and pollen time.
But mostly Spring is weeds, a time for weeds.
Exuberant, unkillable they grow
without restraint and overwhelm the plants
I want to grow, the sickly, dying plants
I care about; the ones I nurture, love.