• Bethany Stimac

the sage and the weeds

heavy rains came

and wicked weeds swallowed

the small green sage

they were in a scrambling,

viney, hurried rage

viciously at war for

the entirety of

the black plastic pot’s floor

and I took to notice

curiously,

the sage was still living there,

deliriously

he had been the whole hurricane then

when afterward I cleared the way

for his face to see the sun

again

he told me in a sweet sound soft,

weeds will want what they do not

they tend to get

aggressively free

and

overgrow oppressively

so that you lose view of the sky

but they can simply

be plucked dry

because they’re just weeds,

and weeds

they’re only

then the sage sighed

happily

like he lived there in a

dream

with hardly much of any thought

he grinned up

at me

from that

black plastic pot

and I smiled back

weakly,

knowing what

he did not

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