Garden-weed

I see from my rooftop,

the garden of a medicinal nursery

The lawn-mover comes and goes, the garden is levelled

The weed grows with the herbs,

gets shortened with them,

The sun, the moon and the wind

nourish it no less, no more than the herbs,

until the day when it will have to be pulled out,

or be made aware of its identity,

and left to die slowly of alienation,

herbs can wait, and so can the ailments, can’t they?

Dead or alive, weed shall be weed.

Do these words even matter?