I know I’m done with a place
the same way I know when a poem is finished

All endings have their natural cadence and come to rest

Though sometimes I love them too much and the endings get messy

or play hide and seek.

Will you just let me be?
To do and offer, this?

Or must you torment me with your boring rants for some purpose?

As if to show me like a weed I can grow even here.


1 Comment

Filed under life, poetry

One response to “weed

  1. you’re back! so glad to see your words.

    they are lovely words.

    i wonder who started calling weeds “weeds” instead of flowers in the first place. hm.

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