Weeds.

(i)

Planting a seed to rip it out by the roots

Warping stems to provide you with fruits

Sadistic gardening, don’t use your gloves

Your stinging fingers hurt me again, love.

Wrap your hands around my nettles

Get stung deeper than your bones.

I hope the way you ripped me open

Makes you itch when you’re all alone,

On a Sunday afternoon, & the breeze

Hits the trees & you suddenly think of me.

(ii)

May your Sunday evenings be blessed

After you confess to yourself that you

Probably should have been kinder to me

May you make amends with your friends

Of which I am no longer welcome in your

Garden. Like a weed I feel freed from the

Unwanted gaze of someone who would

Let their soil become so hardened.

(iii)

May your Monday mornings be free

May your roots never get tangly.

May your twisted trees grow as tall

As your aspirations. Power to them all.

Let them grow on under your housed sun,

I’ll never forget the times we had that fun

My broken heart remains in pain

I know you experienced feeling the same

May your days be full of magic and Joy

May you never grow weary of all you employ

May your leaves stretch and grow with pride

May you never throw another dear weed aside.

August, 2025.