POEM - Weeding

the sweat that drips off my nose like small globes
waters dusty soil beneath -
this is no drought but my body is the rain cloud.

there is a sweetness that grows within
when the weed roots finally let go
and surrenders itself -

when i get it full, complete,
not just the tops,
i am afraid that they

will just be back next week
to laugh some more at me.
I love to hold those weeds in my hand

like a shrunken head, by the hair,
and gaze at frazzled whitened roots.
It relents to the strength of arms and hands,

The berating sun smiling hard at me
as i toss the trophy into the
wheelbarrow ready for a great composting.

M C Biegner