Biological Warfare

The field is fallow,
The weeds in ranks march against the house,
The rose bushes abreast the fence
Are cohorts to the weeds.
The apple tree out back
Looks weary.
The barn, a heap of well-used lumber,
Gives hint that time has passed,
That someone lived here once, but that was in the past.

Now the woods are massing troops, and
By patient biological warfare
The farm becomes a forest.

Bryan Ness
Published in Manna