Outside in August

My cottage garden is overrun
with vines unwanted of unknown origin.
I saw their hopeful sprouts,
skinny snakes of chartreuse
with threatening triangular, flat heads.
Later, I thought. I will remove you later.
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Several weeks evaporated in the heat of July.
While I was engrossed in other things,
invaders in green gorged on the abundant nutrients
in the black river dirt of my rose beds.

Suddenly, a thickly corded web
blanketed the thorny thickets
obscuring the sun and thwarting the buds.

Can I not turn my head for a month?!
Really, any gardener knows better than that šŸ™‚.

It was tricky business detangling the snarls among barbed branches.
Leaves are strewn about the path,
unapologetically amputated.
I, the victor,
the vines wilt dejectedly in unruly piles.
Soon they will rot
in the street
and for a moment I feel like a murderess.
As I hoist the awkward carnage
onto my shoulders and move towards the curb,
I sense my roses behind me
stretching their awkward, angular necks
to face againĀ their burning god.

HS 8-15-2016

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