The clock ticks and ticks on the shelf in the corner.
Mud drying to crust behind red manicured nails.
Clumps of thistle pulled from the rain softened earth.
The garden is yellow with daffodils.
From the window, at this distance, so full of beauty.
She thought the battle done, but a clear eye sees,
intermingled with the green stocks
of the more legitimate flowers,
the insidious weed shelters.
To pluck it from her blossoming heart and leave no disfigurement,
has she the patience or the skill?
@ Julie Ayers, April 2011