The Garden War

It is  war, undeclared war,  in my garden.

My weapon is not a gun or sword but my hands and clippers,

pulling and cutting loose the spent summer stems.

As I work I note which battles I won this year, and where the weeds triumphed.

Some plantings fared quite well, spreading stems out and up, covering themselves with flowers and glory.

For them I raised my hand in victory, wielding not a sword but a camera

to capture the winning blossoms and mount them like wartime trophies on my online wall.

In other forays my minions did not fare well. Was it my fault?

Did I not supply them with what they needed to overcome the rampant weeds?

Was the soil too rich, too poor? Was the weather too hot, too cool? Was it too much fertilizer or not enough?

I review my battle plan as I tug and sweat, making notes for next year’s engagement.

December will force a truce; winter’s snow and cold

will put an end to the struggle with the weeds.

They will go into their winter camp, biding their time before a springtime strike,

probably earlier than I expect, and I will go out to find my gardens already in the hold of the enemy.

I will gird my loins with shovels, rakes, and hoes and join the battle once again,

sniffing the elusive scent of victory in the sweet Spring breeze.

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About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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