A Time to Weed

I close my eyes and see clumps of green, strands of grass that weave into tufts and curls with long white roots underneath. Each blink is a newly remembered weed, its shape unique, its image an afterthought from working the soil. Maybe it's just the price I pay for the sun shining on seeds. And at least I wasn't digging out ant hills today.

I think I need to sleep.

I close my eyes and see the tangled web of brain cells firing, shoots and weeds and vibrant thoughts connected by roots underneath. And dreaming tidies the memories away, while writing sets them free.

I think.

I think there's a spider lurking, or ants maybe.

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