The Weeds

The weeds in my garden rise up against me

as accusers of my sloth and indolence.

Their gauzy yellow heads bear fruit,

to my despair,

among my carrots

and beets

and the spinach I use for omlettes.

I cannot answer the God who raised them up,

these adversaries round about,

because I have failed in my calling

as a man,

as a gardener,

to keep them at bay by diligent care and scorn of slack.

But I look up to God on the Cross,

and fall at His pierced feet

and beg mercy, Lord,

for my little faith,

for my sins abundant as, and for,

the weeds in my garden.