Weeds

Everything seems to be drawn to the left side of the table. Boxes, bowls, cords and bits of paper hang over the edge. The music is also at the left. The wind blows in from the right, although not this evening. I slid the sliding glass door shut tonight. It was cold as I moved the tools up to the shed at dusk, particularly as I walked past the lime tree, with its strange prostrate branches. It resembles some bird crouched on the ground taking a dirt bath. The surrounding weeds have no idea of what to make of it, especially since I poisoned them and they have grim time to reflect. They can see the lime tree’s low green branches covered in fruit. They can feel the chill wind of late Autumn. Their vision is blurred. Their mouths are parched. They will never take up a space at the left side of my table. They will hear no more of my music. The ground loosens its hold on their roots. I do my best to not take sides.