out, damn weed!

So temptingly pretty, you invaded me.
Once, we gazed at your orange blooms,
Hieracium aurantiacum,
even cut your stems for the vase.
Now, each day for an hour or more, I dig.

The rain of yesterday softens the ground
I push the weed digger into the matted web
of grass and clover and you: orange hawkweed.

I tug at your pale green, soft and fuzzy leaves,
pull up a ball of roots, follow the stolons and rhizomes across the lawn
to your offspring, smaller, yet sprouting, about to flower.

I scan the lawn, blink and see more small patches,
far-flung colonies building their own networks
A series of creeping roots, connecting the plants like highways
or a sewer system.

Each day I get closer to annihilating my foe
Taking time out from other tasks
To, foot-by-foot, quell the invasion I let go too far.

How fitting a punishment for the lazy gardener
who just wanted the simplicity of a small wildflower garden,
who planted the seed mix and watched it grow, hoping it would bloom for years to come.
Only to have this dominant escapee force me
to my hands and knees on the moist lawn.
Digging. Ever digging.