Planting a fresh weed in a garden of roses As the birds watch waiting for me to leave With the sun beating down on a mind that is thinking Of all of the thoughts it don't need Hands still soiled from a long day of labor For things only useful to the eye Missing a few patches where it doesn't matter No sun beams come there from the sky Then step back to rest on a bench slightly crooked And sigh from all the things thought in mind Like living through a movie each story unfolded With revenge or with riches or a heart far better then kind These hands are much older then the mind that moves them Yet I could keep laboring far into the night Living stories with no pictures and memories unlived And make all their endings be right Filled with revenge still a hero unaltered As the sun slowly sets in the west I could finish this tomorrow or maybe next year But I'll never finish mentally to rest (The picture is of Mortimer, my "Pond Watcher")