With the rains come weeds. They grow

and grow so fast, that before a week has

passed, around my house, I can’t see

anything in between, only green.


I can’t smoke or eat all the

weeds that grow from the monsoon’s

rain that flows day after day


Excuse me while I sing the reason I’m blue.

Before Monsoon season came around,and the

rain beat on the ground, it was a sandy brown.


After a month of rain, my yard was an emerald

green. I knew how Jack felt after he saw how his

magic seeds had turned into a beanstalk that

reached the sky and wouldn’t die.


If I had the nerve and skill, like Jack, I’d feel the

need to climb a weed or a tree that reaches

for the sky to see a giant or maybe even God.


I’m scared to do that, so I break out my weed

whacker and attack the sea of green in my yard.

I didn’t want to hear the cries of agony the weeds

let out,


but I knew they screamed, watch out, watch out,

he’s got a weed whacker. They united and decided

to sacrifice a few to get in between and jam my

killing machine.


Unwilling to let them remain, I grabbed my trusty hoe and

began to whack away, hoping they’d never come back.

Then I heard them scream like in a dream. At every stroke,

they said,” Why are you killing us?”


“Because,” I said, “I don’t like the color green, because

you’re not welcome around my house, because, what

will my neighbors think if I let you grow?”


“Don’t you know by killing us, you’re committing a sin?”

a big weed said just before I chopped of its head. Strike

me dead, I stopped and thought that if a weed could talk,

maybe it was right when it said killing it was wrong.


City laws say I can’t let them grow around my house.

If I do, I’d be at fault and get sent to court where a judge

would enforce the rules.


Deciding to flout what I saw as an unjust law, I laid down

my hoe with apologies to those I had killed. Everything alive

tries to stay like that, because that’s nature’s way.


I love Mother Nature for her beauty and all she gives us, so

unlike all the rest, I’d refuse to kill any plants, or even weeds.

I’d tell the judge that I’m a conscientious objector.


I’d rather go to jail than participate in murdering helpless

things, such as weeds. “What have you been smoking?”

the judge would ask. I’d say, “I wouldn’t do that to a weed!”

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