by Carole Estrup

There were two friends who gardened well;

One's name was Anne, one's Isabell.

Anne trimmed the hedges, raked the leaves,

And swept pine needles from the eaves.

A manicured retreat Anne kept;

She raked 'n raked 'n swept 'n swept.

Oh! Curse a weed if it would dare

To show its branches anywhere.

Now Isabell, a different case;

Allowed all weeds to grow in place.

"A plant whose harvest we don't reap,

Makes it no less a plant to keep."

The years fled by, their friendship shattered;

To stand their ground was all that mattered.

When Isabell died, Anne tended her plot;

An orderly mound was what she got.

'Round the tomb she'd chop and hoe;

'Twas fate, for Anne would never know

That when she died, poor weeding slave ...

Great weeds would grow upon her grave.

Previously published by The National Library of Poetry
My thanks to the people at ERGONICA.COM for honoring this poem in
their Weeds Poetry Contest. I also thank them for compiling and
maintaining one of the most extensive libraries about 'weeds' in the world.