Going on strike

Is leaving the backyards unguarded;

The weeds will grow high fast:

No pesticides will do the job right,

So, plucking the weeds is the only just toil

And I keep on,

Weeping over my bruised

Swollen, aching hands

The wind, the Healer, is

Soothing the pain

And swirling the dust...

I’m amidst all of this

Without you:

My lassies and my lads.

You’ve gone somewhere on strike
Out there in the worlds

However, the World is just here

In the Backyards…