Doing Battle

They want to win,
The weeds.
They’re bred for it.
Where no one waters,
They flourish.

Where we die and lie
They thrive,
Showing only small rosettes
Above.  Pulling merely
Tickles as they spread.

But last night’s downpour
Made them more vulnerable.
Devil’s food earth
Opens easier to my
Bare, probing fingers.

I follow the root path,
Tug sharply, just so.  A little
pop, muffled below.  Smiling,
I drag out my prize
And toss it on the growing pile.

Whispered breeze caresses the windchime’s pipes.
Victory hums.

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