Tomorrow Morning

I will rise before the dog,
dig in the yard, celebrate
what is now and earthy.
I will plate the colour green in increments,
lemon lime, the shock of chartreuse, enough
to turn blood grass green with envy.
I will consider weeds, their uninvited flourish
without my tending, while
the hybrids, the proven winners
need their hands held. Seems the weeds
are often stronger, their tap roots deep
and thick, harder to dislodge. They find water
in drought, soil in cracked concrete.
You must admit
each dandelion gone to seed is lovely,
veiled head fragile and translucent,
entrusting scattering
to a breeze.

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