She slipped in through broken shards of glass,
sowing thistles and briers among our seeds yet sprung.

I, a novice gardener, did not know her spirit lingered
as I nurtured our plots with droplets of hope for harvest.

Our seeds soon sprouted, as did her tares.
Together they grew toward the sun, roots intermingled.

To uproot her seed is to uproot our harvest.
But left to thrive, her tares will choke our garden.

I ask you how to banish her spirit from our garden,
but she whispers to you in your own voice.

You believe that she and I are one.
You believe the fruit to be tares, the tares to be fruit.

I know not of the rituals to release her from this space,
but my spirit will not succumb to her power.

I trim the tares into stumps and swab each with vinegar,
with bloody fingers I replace the glass from whence she came.

On bended knee, I plead as I did in childhood until she is gone.
But how will you see it is she who whispered all along?