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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